


The Starting Hinge

by lucky_spike



Series: Armageddon and the Associated Entities [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Midsomer Murders - All Media Types
Genre: Corn Mazes, Crowley and Anathema Device are Friends (Good Omens), Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Fluff and Murder, Minor Character Death, Multi, Murder Mystery, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), i watch too much midsomer murders while im knitting, the perils of rare books dealing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2020-12-01 23:16:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 49,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20931122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucky_spike/pseuds/lucky_spike
Summary: When a rare book collector is mysteriously killed, DI Barnaby and DS Winter are on the case. Meanwhile, the question of what will become of the victim's extensive library stirs a small group of rare books collectors into a furor. Who can be trusted?-This is predominantly a Good Omens fanfic with some Midsomer Murders thrown in just because I could do it and I wanted to. Contains death of an OC and (obvs) murder and attempts thereof. Nothing gory, though, so party on.





	1. Smother in Silence

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfic is dedicated to my friends Nat and Jenn who did absolutely nothing to dissuade me from writing it and therefore should accept equal parts of the blame for its existence.

South of Lower Tadfield, just at the edge of town, there was a proper estate. Sprawling, vast, composed of a hulking manor house and the surrounding lands hemmed in by trees and woods and a suitably picturesque babbling brook. That night, however, it was difficult to appreciate the beauty of the grounds, because it was damp, and cold, and pitch-black besides. Centered on the estate, the huge manor loomed, dark and squat, the few yellow lights on within blinking in the windows like eyes, and a small curl of smoke rising from one of the chimneys, an indicator of a fire lit against the cold tendrils of the fall night, slipping in through the windows and doors. 

Within, in front of the fire, a very old man sat in a stiff-backed armchair, his knobby, fragile fingers resting lightly on the pages of a book. He was admiring the book; he couldn’t read, these days, with his eyes the way they were, but he still loved the feel of the books, the smell of the pages, the weight of the novel in his lap. He was seated in front of the fire, in his stiff-backed chair, swaddled in blankets, and he was thinking about his book.

He would die soon, he considered. It wasn’t an unreasonable thought, he was, after all, eighty-seven-years-old. It was a ripe old age, and he’d lived life to its fullest until he’d got too frail to travel, or even to roam around his own grounds. These past ten years his body had started to betray him, and he’d become progressively more home-bound, hobbled by weakness and painful joints and general weariness. But he’d found solace in his family’s old house. In the library.

In the books.

But he would die soon, he thought, and there was the question of what to do about the books. There were, after all, so many of them, and he loved them. The estate was to be gifted to a land trust, preserved as green space forever, and the contents of the house were to be auctioned off, all proceeds designated to a variety of charities of his choosing. But the books had not been included in his specifications of his post-mortem wishes. When he had written up the will with his lawyer five years ago, he had felt certain that he would devise a suitable solution for his books and would specify later that they were to be dealt with separately. He had thought about it in the intervening years, considered it at length, but he found himself coming up short of a good solution. He’d spoken to several rare books collectors, all over the country, but none of them had seemed the suitable type for his collection.

He would die soon, he thought, and if he didn’t shake a leg, one of those bastards would end up with his books. 

There were a few contenders, last-resort types that wouldn’t be  _ too _ bad, the old man thought, if push came to shove. There was Johnston from Oxford, but when she’d talked about what she would do with the collection, it seemed she only wanted to preserve the rarer specimens, and then put the rest in the library for just any old student to look at. That wouldn’t do. And then there was Evans from Carlisle - he would display and preserve the rarer specimens, which was well enough, but then he’d had the audacity to say he’d  _ sell _ the more common books. As if! Selling a book!

Not to say anything of Fell from London. Oh, he’d said he would never sell a single book, but he had a  _ shop _ . A shop, and he said he wouldn’t sell a book. The man in the manor may have been old, may have been failing, but he was not, thankfully,  _ stupid _ .

But he would die soon, and he still didn’t know who would take his books. He sighed, and closed the book in his lap, brushing his fingers across the soft leather cover. Perhaps Oxford wasn’t the worst option …

The floor under his chair rocked a little, which told him there was someone coming. It was useful, the old house, how it told him when someone was coming now that his hearing wasn’t what it used to be. His armchair was positioned just so, and when someone - one of the nurses, always anymore - entered the room, the one warped floorboard that had not been replaced would wobble, and his chair would rock. 

“Emily?” he called. “Is that the tea, then?”

“Not quite.”

He would die  _ soon _ , the old man thought, as the pillow clamped over his face and he struggled against it, against an unseen attacker so much stronger than he. He’d known it, known it was coming, but this was, overall, rather sooner than he’d anticipated.

Well, he thought, as he slumped back, and his thoughts became slow, distant, like torn strands of a spider’s web waving in the breeze. So much for careful planning.

The book tumbled from his lap.

\---

Sunday was a day of rest. So it was in the Beginning, and so it remained, 3 years after the planet had narrowly avoided Armageddon. Sunday was a day of rest, and so an angel and a demon rested.

Aziraphale rather loved Sunday mornings. He would wake up - he liked to sleep a little, on Saturday nights, because waking up made Sunday mornings all the sweeter - and read in bed, by the light of his halo, until the sun coming through the window grew bright enough to see by. He would turn the pages slowly, relaxed and luxurious, and he would run the fingers of his free hand through Crowley’s hair, or his feathers, if his wings were out, as he did. And Crowley would sleep, content and comfortable, usually with one arm wrapped defensively around a pillow and the other draped across Aziraphale’s waist. 

This particular rainy Sunday was no exception. Aziraphale was propped up on pillows, reading  _ State of Wonder _ , his wings relaxed and draped over the headboard. Crowley was sleeping, his face pressed against the soft flesh of the angel’s hip, his arm and his crippled right wing wrapped over Aziraphale’s lap. He was snoring. Had he been awake, Aziraphale would have remarked that it was all rather adorable, and that would have made Crowley annoyed, which would have made the morning even better. But he wasn’t, so he didn’t.

The sun rose in its time, but the day outside was gray and cold. Crowley considered waking up at one point, mumbling some semblance of “what time is it” in a sleep-slurred voice, but when he heard it was barely past seven he promptly snorted and rolled over before dropping immediately back to sleep. Aziraphale let him, for a while anyway, and he read on. He’d read the book once before, but it was during their time with Warlock, and he’d been a bit stressed, so he figured it was worth the re-read. It was fairly good, really, and he was enjoying it, and planned to enjoy it for another hour or so before getting insistent about getting out of bed. 

Sundays were for rest, but that didn’t mean staying in bed all day, and the restaurant in the village did a lovely full English that Aziraphale was craving this morning.

In fact, he read for another two hours before his appetite won out over his desire to continue to relax in bed with Crowley. Gently, he mussed Crowley’s hair, if if were possible to make it more so, and nudged the demon between the wings with his knee. “Morning, Crowley.”

“Whazzit?”

“It’s half nine,” Aziraphale clarified. “I thought we’d go into town for breakfast.”

“Huh?” One yellow eye cracked open, just for a moment, before he swept his good wing up to cover his face. “Too early. Three more hours.”

“Mm, you’ve been asleep for ten hours now, Crowley. Up.” Not looking up from his book, he reached over to pull the wing down a little. “Breakfast.”

“Not hungry.” He grunted, as Aziraphale insistently held his hand over the leading edge of the black wing, and Crowley struggled to flick him off. Aziraphale was, as always, stronger, and after a few irritated pushes, Crowley chose to tuck his wings out of the mortal plane altogether and instead shove his head under the pillow. 

Aziraphale turned a page. “ _ I’m _ hungry.” There was a reply from below the pillow, but it was so muffled as to be unintelligible. Still, Aziraphale had known Crowley for a very long time. “No need for that kind of language, dear boy.” He slid a hand under the covers, the better to prod Crowley in the ribs, perhaps a little harder than strictly necessary. “Up you get, you slothful thing.”

“ _ No _ .”

Aziraphale frowned, and turned a page. “It’s the first Sunday of the month, Crowley, you know. You know what that means?” No response, although the pillow did shift a little. “They’re doing Bloody Marys on special. You  _ do _ like their Bloody Marys.” A period of silence. Then,

“Twenty more minutes.”

“Alright, then.”

He had intended, of course, to let Crowley sleep for another twenty minutes. Anyway, he didn’t feel he was at a good stopping point. But after fifteen minutes, buzzing broke them both out of their respective activities. Aziraphale looked to the cell phone, on the nightstand. “Your mobile’s ringing.”

“Let it.” Crowley sighed, slid out from under the pillow, and rolled onto his back. “Who calls at ten on a Sunday?”

“Rather a lot of people I’d imagine,” Aziraphale replied. He reached across the bed, the better to pick up the mobile and study the screen. “It’s an Oxford number.”

“Not Adam, is it?” Crowley asked, as he slid one eye open. 

“It doesn’t say Adam.”

“Then let it go -”

“Hello?” Aziraphale sat back against the headboard. “Anthony Crowley’s phone.”

“Ugh,” Crowley grunted. “ _ Angel _ .”

“Yes, ah, yes this is Mr. Fell, yes. Oh, yes, hello.” He glanced to Crowley, who at the start of the conversation had sat up, propped on his elbows, one eyebrow arched inquiringly. “Yes, Janet I do recall - oh, no! How  _ dreadful _ .” He held the mobile away from his face a little and covered it with his hand. “There’s been a murder,” he whispered to Crowley.

“Who is it and how did they get that number?” Crowley asked, considering there may yet be another murder today depending on the answer. 

“Oh. Oh yes? You don’t say.” His eyes widened. “ _ Oh _ my, I … yes. Yes, I would. Yes, I know the place. And when?” He nodded, and made some kind of pointing gesture toward the mobile as he listened intently, obviously trying to signal something to Crowley, although the demon would be blessed if he had any idea  _ what _ . “Oh. Yes, then. Yes, certainly I will be. Shame it’s under such terrible circumstances though, eh? Yes, of course. Oh, he’s well, thank you - how’s Martin? Ah, excellent. And Tracy? Oh, you must be so proud. Yes, of course I will. Thank you for the call, Janet, sounds like I’ll see you soon. Pip-pip. Yes, yes, ta love. Goodbye.” Only once he’d held the mobile away and cautiously prodded the ‘end call’ button as though it might bite him did he allow himself to frown, distastefully.

“I do  _ not _ like these things,” he concluded, handing the phone back to Crowley, who at this point had sat up against the headboard as well. 

“Who on the wide green bloody Earth was that?” Crowley demanded, tapping something on the phone and hearing the automated voice read out the unrecognized number. “Don’t know that number.”

Aziraphale stepped out of bed and stretched. “Dr. Johnston from Oxford. I gave her your number when she acquired a copy of the infamous  _ Four Bears _ Bible a few months ago, so she could call if she ever decided to sell it on.” 

“Got murdered by four bears then, did she?”

“Be awfully hard for her to call me if she had.” He shot Crowley an irritated look over his shoulder, and tucked his own wings away. “Don’t look at me like that - you know you would have just let it go to voicemail if I wasn’t with you.”

“You can’t just  _ give out my number _ . I’m a  _ demon _ .”

“That’s not the important part -”

“Why don’t you get your own mobile? You have your own number then, and people can call you at absurd hours any day of the week to talk about Bibles and bears and whatever.” Aziraphale, in response, grabbed a pillow off the floor and flipped it toward Crowley’s face. The demon, fast as a snake, caught it before it hit him.

“Oi, what was that for?” Crowley asked. He tossed the pillow back, bouncing it off Aziraphale’s shoulder. 

Aziraphale pulled his pajama shirt off over his head and neatly hung it in the closet. “For not paying attention. There was a  _ murder _ , Crowley.”

“I got  _ that part _ .” Crowley scoffed. “Who was it? This Dr. Johnston? Funeral’s next Sunday, then?”

The angel sighed, halfway through buttoning up his shirt. “It was Lord Bartleby. Very troubling - he was quite old, I can’t imagine why anyone would bother with murder. The funeral is on Tuesday, but of course I didn’t really know him beyond a passing acquaintance, so it wouldn’t be appropriate to go, I think. He had an extensive library,” he added, stripping out of his pajama pants. Crowley watched appreciatively. “I offered to buy a few volumes from him some years back, but he wasn’t interested in making a sale.” 

Something caught up with Crowley. “Did you just say you can’t  _ imagine _ why someone would  _ bother _ with  _ murder _ ? As opposed to just waiting him out?”

“He must have been in his eighties! Seems a bit redundant, but that’s humans for you.” He cinched his belt. “Anyway, apparently, in his will, he dictated that all of his belongings are to be auctioned off. Funds will go to charity, that sort of thing - he really was a rather good person. The auction is next Sunday.” 

Crowley elected not to remark any further on the discussion of murder, partially because he agreed and partially because Aziraphale tended to get tetchy if his unconsciously less-than-angelic remarks were harped on. “I’m assuming,” Crowley said, as he rolled out of the bed and onto his feet, lithe and naked as he stretched, “that this includes the books?”

“Yes, to include all the contents of his library.”

Crowley did not bother asking if they were going, because of course they would be. “You don’t have room for many more. Here or at the shop.”

“I’ll find space. I don’t want the entire collection - I have a few of the ones that’ll be sold already, of course - but there were some.” Waistcoat buttoned, he turned his attention to his bowtie. 

Crowley snapped his fingers, and was suddenly fully dressed, ready to step out for breakfast. He picked his sunglasses off of the empty dresser, ran his hands through his hair, and set about tying it up into a bun. “So where is this place? And who killed the old nob, by the way?”

“They don’t know.” The two of them left the bedroom then, pausing at the door for Aziraphale to shrug into his coat. Though it was still pouring as they walked out to the Bentley, the raindrops didn’t dare fall onto them. “Who the murderer is, that is. It’s under investigation. The estate, where the auction will be, is just south of Tadfield.” 

“Oh, Tadfield.” Crowley brightened at that as he swung into his car. “We can see the kids.”

“I figured you’d like that bit.” He smiled at Crowley, a little smug but mostly affectionate. “For an agent of chaotic evil, dear boy, you really are quite predictable. Strong drinks or lost souls …”

Crowley shifted the Bentley into gear and pulled away from the curb, toward the village. “Keep it to yourself, alright?” he grumbled. “And just so you know, I’m limiting your book purchases. Ten. That’s all.”

“Oh, are you?” Aziraphale wiggled in the seat a little, completely amused at the demon’s proclamation. “What if there’s an eleventh that I just  _ must _ have?”

“Hard limit, I’m afraid.” He hydro-planed around the corner of their street, all four of the Bentley’s wheels touching down on the high street and accelerating. “Not a single book over.”

“Not even if I ask  _ nicely _ ?” He leaned across the bench seat, running a finger across the tops of Crowley’s shoulders before sliding his arm around the demon’s skinny ribs and hugging him tight. “I hear demons are always open to negotiation.”

“Nasty rumor, that.” The car rolled to a stop in front of the restaurant, and Crowley turned to face Aziraphale, the two of them nose-to-nose. “I thought you wanted breakfast.”

“Maybe we can discuss terms over coffee?”

“Hm.” Crowley cocked his head, and Aziraphale moved to meet him, but leaned forward into thin air, because the demon -  _ oh, definitely a demon _ \- had slid out of the car and closed the door behind him. When he came around, propping open the passenger door and gesturing grandly for his companion to disembark, he said, enunciating every word, “Ten. Books.”

“Well, I never.” Aziraphale sighed, stood up out of the car, and waited for Crowley to close the door before wrapping his arm around the other’s waist and pulling him close, the raindrops falling around them while they walked, as if deflected by some unseen umbrella. “Now who’s eager for breakfast? One mention of drinks -”

“Where’s the rush? No sense in hurrying.” Crowley stepped away from Aziraphale, the better to prop open the door. “Any good deal worth making is worth easing into, angel.” Aziraphale stepped inside, past Crowley, and ignored the playful shove to his shoulder. “You ought to know that.”

“Hm. I suppose I do.” The young man at the host station, one of the owner’s boys home from school for the weekend, recognized them as they came in and gestured them to follow him to a table. “We only have a week, though.”

“We have,” Crowley corrected, picking a Blood Mary off the bar, where it was waiting for one of the staff to deliver it to someone else’s table, “ _ all _ week.”


	2. The Dewey Decimal Homicides, and other names I considered for this story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale arrive in Tadfield. As usual, trouble seems to follow.

Through the course of the week, texts were exchanged with varying degrees of excitement in the Air Base group. The murder, of course, was titillating, and speculation ran wild, but as nobody had access to any information beyond what was available in the press, details were scarce. The Them’s theory was that someone from the land trust had killed the old Lord, since he wasn’t dying fast enough, while Anathema and Newt reasoned that perhaps there was a family member named in the will who would get a little money. Crowley and Aziraphale, who had seen people murdered through history for both of those reasons and everything in between, figured that regardless of the motive, murdering an eighty-seven-year-old was fairly pointless, and hopefully whatever prompted it was worth the fallout that would come in the perpetrator’s own afterlife.

Amid the texts about possible motives, decisions were made. Jasmine Cottage had a small guest room, which was the perfect size to accommodate two supernatural entities who did not actually need to sleep, therefore Crowley and Aziraphale would room there. After much cajoling, particularly from Adam, it was decided they’d make a weekend out of it. Aziraphale didn’t fight the idea very much, as there was to be a preview on Saturday night of the inventory that would be available at the auction on Sunday, and he wanted a chance to take a second look at the books. 

Crowley didn’t fight the idea at all, especially after Anathema pointed out that Friday night at the pub was trivia night, and drinks would be on her. 

When the Bentley pulled up outside of Jasmine Cottage late Friday afternoon, the Them were already there, seated on the wall around the garden, waiting. Dog barked excitedly until the engine shut off, and Adam scolded him, for all the good it did. The little Hellhound - former Hellhound, possibly - continued to bark, tail wagging as he jumped around at Aziraphale’s feet. 

“Actually,” Wensley said, conversationally, over the excited yapping, “positive reinforcement works better than negative reinforcement according to some articles I read in a psychology magazine. You should try rewarding him when he sits quietly, instead of scolding him when he barks."

“So what’m I supposed to do when he barks? Stare at him and wait for him to stop and  _ then _ say good boy?” Adam scoffed. “Doesn’ seem very responsible to me. Hullo!” He slid off the wall - a smaller fall these days. At fourteen, he was growing like a weed: stood straight, he would easily be as tall as Aziraphale, although he rarely stood straight. He grinned up at the angel. “Thanks for coming, even if it’s mostly for books.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, it’s always nice to visit. Ah, yes.” He stiffened, because Adam hugged him around the middle, clamping his arms against his sides. “Yes, good to see you too.”

Pepper, Brian, and Wensley slid off the wall as well, the better to greet Crowley as he came around the car. He did not, as the angel did, get a hug, having long since trained the kids that high-fives were much more preferable and less likely to result in hissing. “We’ve been collecting clues about the murder,” Brian told the demon eagerly.

Pepper shrugged, rolled her eyes, and prepared to cut in when Wensley said, “ _ Actually _ , we haven’t got many clues. Or any. The police are being very thorough with the investigation.”

“They think someone killed him to get at his property,” Pepper said. “Which makes sense. But he was just an old man - why would anyone want to hurt him?”

“We met him once,” Brian continued, watching idly as Adam helped Aziraphale wrestle what appeared to be an antique suitcase out of the back of the Bentley. “Every fall he used to come to the fete in the square, ‘til he got really old.” He smiled, fondly. “He gave me a mud pie once.”

“That’s some kind of dessert, is it?” Crowley leaned against the gate to the cottage, and it swung open. 

“Actually that time it was literally a pie tin filled with mud.” Wensley and Adam exchanged a smirk, while Brian and Pep laughed, Brian miming raising a pie tin as if to drop on her head and Pep threatening to push him into the nearest bush with just as much prejudice as she had that day. 

The horseshoe over the door, long since resigned to decades more of this flagrant disrespect, glowed red, resentful, as the demon and the hellhound crossed the threshold, followed closely by an Antichrist, an angel toting a bulky old suitcase, and three relievingly normal children. A few more of the white paint chips, cracked and brittle from the repeated flaring and cooling, flaked down to the porch below. 

“Don’t knock or anything.” Anathema rounded the corner from the kitchen with her arms crossed over her chest, and gave the assembled crew a withering look. “Come on in.” The sarcasm could have curdled milk. 

Crowley leaned back against the wall, allowing Aziraphale and the kids to brush past. “Comes from the company you keep, I suppose, Book-Girl.” 

Anathema shook her head. “That’ll teach me, I guess.” There were excited shouts coming from the back garden as something, likely Newt’s latest attempt at technological improvement, exploded. She winced. “He was really hopeful that one would turn out.”

“He doesn’t learn, does he?”

“He tries.” She glanced around, and then lowered her voice. “You can’t drink tonight. I need you on your A-game.”

Crowley looked at her over the tops of his glasses, very confused and a little accusatory. “ _ You’re _ telling  _ me _ what I can and can’t -”

“That team from the air base is playing tonight. Kitten Mittons. Stop laughing.”

“Sorry. S’a really good show. You should watch it.” He rolled his eyes when her glare didn’t let up. “Yes, yes, alright, clean and sober, one night only. Only because they are bastards and I hate that they have a good team name,” he added. “If you’d let me kill them -”

“ _ No _ .”

Crowley shrugged. “I’ve offered. Right.” 

“It’s terrible taste, joking about murder when they’re still investigating one.”

“Is it?” Anathema rolled her eyes at him again, and retreated to the kitchen. The demon followed. “Did they figure out a motive, yet?”

She shrugged. “Not that anybody’s saying. Leading theory in the village is that they wanted to hurry his death along so they could get at his estate or his money or something. Traditional motives.”

“You know.” He slid into a seat, and somehow found a cup of practically-boiling coffee on the table. Anathema hadn’t brewed coffee, but it was there all the same. “Ziraphale had a good point - they should have just waited him out. I mean, he was what? Ninety? Something like that? You lot only live to like, seventy or something, so he was on borrowed time anyway.”

She did not say ‘You’re terrible’, because they both knew that without reiterating. She did say, “The average life span for a man in England is 79 years. Remember that in case it comes up tonight.”

“ _ You _ remember it. I already have to remember all the bloody history and pop culture.” There was a commotion from the back of the cottage, and seconds later the sound of four teens and one harassed grants-writer/aspiring computer engineer coming in from outside filled the little house. Brian, loudly, announced that he was hungry. Crowley looked to the witch, one eyebrow raised delicately. “You invited the pack of Them?”

“They invited themselves. It’s just the pub, anyway, no one will mind.”

“And, to be clear, I’m  _ not _ allowed to drink, even if I sober up.”

“No, because it’s weird when you do that and I hate it.” She smiled sweetly at him. “Consider it penance.”

“For  _ what _ ?” She smiled more broadly, spread her hands. He scowled. “Keep that up, I’ll give the police another murder to investigate.”

“Okay, Crowley.”

\---

When the six of them finally managed to make it to the pub in a cohesive group fashion - always a challenge when a full half of the group is fourteen and an additional quarter is immortal and therefore has very little sense of urgency - the young woman at the bar directed them to a table near the back with a sigh, because of course this was going to be how her night would go. Adam, the most polite troublemaker in the world, possibly, waved at her and stopped to make small talk, before asking her again if they were hiring* and then when the answer was, as always, to the contrary, sulking off, dejected.

[*  _ “Not a fourteen-year-old, Adam, for the last time. Come back in a couple of years.” _ ]

“What do you want a job so bad for, anyway?” Pepper asked.

Adam shrugged. “Money. Mum and Dad give me chores around the house, but if I could earn a little more money somewhere else I could really save up and get a car when I’m old enough.”

“But your dad said he’d give you his car when you’re old enough,” she pointed out. “I was there.”

“Euch, but I don’t want to drive that old thing.” He made a face. “I’ll get something new. Something  _ fast _ .”

Crowley nodded encouragingly. “Only way to do it.”

“If you want to die,” Aziraphale added, primly, not looking away from the menu. “I think it’s very sensible to drive your father’s car until you gain more experience, Adam.”

If Aziraphale noticed the demon glaring at him, or if Anathema saw the beseeching ‘Help me out here’ look he shot her, neither reacted, both perusing the small pub menu with determination. Newt, on the other hand, took advantage of the lull to praise Adam for his sense fiscal responsibility, and the kid puffed up a little with pride. 

“We could probably find a few things around the cottage we could use your help with,” Anathema added. “For a reasonable rate.”

“Super reasonable,” Adam agreed.

Wensley frowned. “Actually, minimum wage is £7.90, and by offering an hourly rate lower than than that, the employer could be fined.”

“It also encourages employers to hire under-the-table employees, which means people might be working without proper workers’ rights and protections, circumventing the regulations put into place to safeguard laborer safety and justice.” Pepper set her menu down and folded her hands on the table, glancing idly off toward the bar. And then her eyebrows shot up. “Oi, isn’t that the policeman investigating Lord Bartleby’s murder?”

As one, the table turned to look, with the exception of Aziraphale, who was busy agonizing over the beef stew versus the shepherd’s pie, and wouldn’t have recognized the culprit anyway. Anathema’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah, I think it is. What’s his name, I ran into him in town the other day …”

“Winter,” said Newt. “I think. DS Winter. He was questioning one of the ladies from the clinic next door during lunch the other day.”

“Were you eavesdropping?”

“Of course.”

The waitress set a cup of coffee on the table in front of Crowley. “I’m so proud of you,” he told Newt. Aziraphale, momentarily distracted by temptation to sin, spared Crowley a disapproving glance and then looked to the coffee, surprised. “Anathema said no drinking. Trivia night.”

“Ah.”

It took an additional five minutes of waffling before Aziraphale made any kind of decision regarding food, but that was alright. Wensley was busy regaling the assembled party with information he had learned recently from a documentary he’d watched on Netflix, while Pepper periodically contributed with skepticism and well-voiced objections to the social constructs expressed in the film. Nobody bothered to say that albatrosses probably don’t function under the same social rules and mores as humans, though, because by all indications Wensley and Pepper were having quite a good time arguing about it. Adam and Brian, busy with their hands but still attentive, set about trying to make origami swans out of napkins. Crowley, who was surprisingly proficient at origami, helped.

The meals arrived just when the discussion was wandering on to something else, bird-watching from the sound of it, and how to make it as annoying for RP Tyler as possible, and conversation died down in favor of eating, although Adam and Pepper did continue to conspire as to how best to fool Tyler into thinking there was some sort of rare undiscovered bird traveling through Tadfield.

“What if,” Adam said, around a mouthful of sandwich, “one of us put on a bird costume and sat in a tree really far away from his hide? So like, he’d think it was a really big bird, but it’d be too far away to properly make out, an’ maybe he’d try to go get a closer look.”

Brian nodded eagerly. “Yeah, an’ that’s when we could have the piano wire across the door of the hide and hit him with the pie.”

“We’re not hitting Tyler with a pie.” Pepper stabbed a green bean assertively, and glared at the rest of the Them. “I’ve already been grounded twice this fall, I’m not getting grounded again.”

“Well we’d have to do  _ something _ to him, or what’s the point of it?”

“Making him think there’s some giant weird bird  _ is _ something,” Adam insisted. “You know he’ll write it down like he does and then prob’ly write to the  _ Advertiser _ , an’ then we can plan the next bird appearance …”

It went on like that for a while. Newt and Anathema murmured to one another about similar pranks they had got up to as kids - not so many, for Newt, and fewer even for Anathema, because Agnes hadn’t mentioned pranks - while Aziraphale and Crowley agreed without speaking that if at any point either of them were asked to pretend to be a giant bird in a tree they would absolutely not do that*.

[* _ Aziraphale had learned to avoid this the hard way, when sunning his wings in a treetop in Polynesia in the sixth century. He’d been quite relaxed, nearly asleep, and so it was even more jarring when the villagers, mistaking him for a huge bird, had started pelting him with rocks in an attempt to ground him. _ ]

By the time Aziraphale had finished both of his entrees, the kids were on to dessert and a discussion about whether space aliens would be welcomed in America or shot on sight. Anathema, the resident American, tried to provide input as she was able and Newt, the resident contactee, expressed that if the aliens looked and acted anything like the aliens  _ he’d _ met, the most likely reception would probably be a period of confused and bewildered staring, regardless of where on Earth they landed. Crowley was on to his fourth cup of coffee, full of longing for just one glass of good Scotch or wine or vodka or even  _ bad  _ wine or Scotch or vodka at this point, he wasn’t particular. 

He was just debating a minor miracle to the effect of making his coffee an Irish when the door to the pub swung open and an overwhelming feeling of … well, not a spooky feeling, but definitely a strong sense of  _ ill-intent _ hit him in the face as plainly as if he’d been slapped. He frowned, and nudged Anathema with an elbow. “Who’s that, then?”

As involved as she was in the conversation, it took her a minute to see who Crowley was referring to. The problem being, it was a crowd who had come in the door together, some of whom Anathema didn’t recognize, and two who might have been policeman. Then there were two of the members of Kitten Mittons, Crowley should know them, and Elroy, who was red in the face and scowling.

“I don’t know all of them, sorry. You know those two, and that’s Elroy.”

“He always that angry?”

Anathema shrugged. “His football team might have lost. That usually does it.”

“He’s looking for a fight?”

“Yeah, wouldn’t be the first.”

“Alright then.” Two of the crowd that had stepped inside - a short man with light ginger hair, going sliver at the temples, and a dark-skinned woman of average height - stopped on their way to the bar, looking across the pub to the group in the corner. Particularly, to Aziraphale. Crowley tensed, imperceptibly. They started to walk over. “You know them?” he asked, voice low, after he kicked Aziraphale’s ankle hard enough to gain the angel’s attention. “Coming in hot over there.”

“Oh?” He turned, and then sighed. “Yes, I do. Relax, Crowley, they’re book dealers. Excuse me, just a moment.” He stood. “Dr. Johnston! Mr. Evans. What a pleasure. I’d say it’s a surprise, but, well, considering the circumstances, it isn’t.”

“No, it isn’t, unfortunately.” Dr. Johnston shook Aziraphale’s hand and grinned broadly. “So good to see you again, Mr. Fell, in any case. Shop doing alright?”

“Well enough.”

Mr. Evans smiled too, although his was tighter, more forced than Dr. Johnston’s. “Any interest in parting with that first-edition Poe yet?”

“Can’t say I have, no.” He gestured to the table and the assembled crew. “Forgive me, these are some friends I have in the area - Anathema and Newton, and then there’s Adam, Brian, Mr. Wensleydale, and Pepper. And of course you know Anthony.”

Crowley smiled, although there wasn’t much that was nice about it, and there were more teeth than strictly necessary. “Hiya.”

“Nice to meet you all,” Dr. Johnston said with a little nod to the group. “Sorry to interrupt. We just were wondering - any particular books you’re interested in, Mr. Fell?”

“You won’t be bidding on the Howells I hope,” Evans added. 

Aziraphale shrugged, and offered a non-committal, “Oh, I don’t know. Hadn’t really narrowed it down to a final list, yet. I was waiting for the preview tomorrow afternoon, really.” When Evans wouldn’t stop staring, he also added, “But yes, the Howells was on my short list.”

“A bidding war, then.” Evans scoffed. “Unless you’d like to make an agreement of some kind. I also hear there’s a rather valuable first-edition copy of  _ Stations of the Cosmic Christ _ -”

“Space Jesus,” Crowley stage-whispered, appreciatively, while Anathema and Adam burst into poorly-stifled giggles. “Never met that one.”

“- which is signed by the author. It would fit in well with your collection, I’m certain.”

“Oh, yes, but I’m afraid I have it already.” And he did: Crowley had seen it, decades ago, when Aziraphale had picked up a signed copy, and had made Space Jesus jokes for about a week straight at the time, until Aziraphale kicked him out of the bookshop ‘until you learn how to appreciate literature’. It was up for debate whether or not that had actually ever happened, but either way Aziraphale missed the company for wine-drinking, and after about two months he’d let Crowley in without a single question about his literary awakening*.

[*  _ Which was fortunate, because what Crowley had actually done was see Jurassic Park in theaters no less than eight times, laughing increasingly loudly with each go-round, until the spot-faced manager of the theater told him that he should probably go now, or he wouldn’t be welcome in that particular Cineworld again _ .]

Evans glowered, and Crowley could smell the resentment rolling off him. “Of course you do,” he said, with another forced smile. “Well, I’m planning on going to the preview myself, so perhaps we can reach an agreement there.”

“Perhaps,” lied Aziraphale.

Dr. Johnston glanced between the two of them, cautiously amused, her eyebrows raised. “Gentlemen, I like a good rare book as much as the next person, but it’s only books.”

As one, the rest of the table winced. “Ooh, not great,” Pepper whispered. 

Aziraphale’s smile turned brittle. “Books are the key to the inner soul of humanity, I’ve always said,” and he ignored Crowley’s murmured ‘you have?’. “But I’m sure we’ll all go home from the auction happy - Lord Bartleby did have a marvelous collection, and while we all may not get every book we want, there will be plenty of opportunities for some real pick-ups.”

Evans sighed. “I’m sure you’re right, Mr. Fell. Ah, well. We’ve taken enough of your time.” He turned to the rest of the party, still seated, who were watching him with varying degrees of politeness. “Lovely to meet you all, perhaps we’ll get to know each other better some time.”

Brian exchanged a look with Wensley, and shrugged. “I dunno, maybe.”

Dr. Johnston was more forthcoming. “If any of you kids want to come up to Oxford for a day and tour the library, just send me an email. If you’re friends with Mr. Fell I think I can arrange for a private tour.” She winked. “Show you the real rare tomes in the archives, even, if you want.”

“Cool,” said Adam, making a clear attempt at enthusiasm. “Thanks.”

Goodbyes were exchanged - considerably warmer with Dr. Johnston than with Mr. Evans - and Aziraphale sat back down. There was silence for a beat, and then, ever-reliable, Crowley said, “That Evans is a real bastard, isn’t he?”

“ _ Crowley _ .” Aziraphale frowned. “I won’t comment.” It was as good as an agreement. “I’m afraid the bidding war for the Howells might get  _ contentious _ from the sound of it, though.”

“Oh, we could all be so lucky.” Aziraphale glared at Crowley. “Anyway, what’s your boss always going on about coveting thy neighbor’s stuff? It’s a sin, I’m fairly certain. One of the big ‘ _ thou shalt not _ ’s.”

“I’m not  _ coveting _ . Coveting implies jealousy or an intent to cause harm to acquire something. I would just like to have the books, if they’re available.”  _ So there _ , hung in the air, unsaid. 

Crowley raised his mug in acknowledgement. “Whatever you say, angel.”

Newt, in an uncharacteristic feat of social bravery, spoke up. “You know though, I agree with Crowley. Mr. Evans did … come on a bit strong.”

“He can be a bit like that.” Aziraphale sighed. 

Adam was toying with his dessert, just arrived at the table, pushing a wad of chocolate cake around the plate with his spoon. “So you’re going down to the manor tomorrow afternoon?”

“For the preview, yes. The manifest listed  _ all _ of the books in good condition, but I very much doubt it.” He considered that for a second, spoon poised over his creme brulee. “Not that I won’t buy them anyway. Just want to know how much restoration I’ll be getting myself into.” It occurred to him that Adam looked a little crestfallen at that, and he frowned. “Why?”

“Only ‘cause …” He looked to Newt and Anathema. Newt nodded, encouraging, and Anathema glanced to Crowley, who was looking increasingly suspicious. “Okay, so there’s this corn maze, right, an’ we do it every year, only this year Anathema and Newt were gonna do it with us. But then we were talking about it an’ it would be pretty wicked to do like, a race, so I was gonna go with Anathema and Newt so the teams would be fair, but then we thought maybe if you guys were here we could do grown-ups against us …” He trailed off, and waited to see if the proposition would land. 

“Oh, I’m definitely in.” Crowley nodded. “Absolutely. What’s the winner get?”

Anathema shrugged, and Adam followed suit. “Dunno. Figured we’d figure it out later.”

“The satisfaction of a job well done?” Newt suggested. Everyone ignored him.

Aziraphale considered it. “It has been years since I’ve done a proper maze. I think the last one was … oh, not long before I started the shop. Hungary, I think.”

“You just ate,” Crowley said, and then he drank his coffee hastily, to disguise how funny he found his own terrible joke. Anathema rolled her eyes. 

“So are you in?” Adam asked. Pepper took advantage of his distraction to steal a forkful of cake. “It’s be four-against-four that way, so it’d be fair.”

“Oh, yes, I suppose.” He thought a little, over a few bites of dessert, and asked, “It’s only open in the afternoon, is it?”

“Well …” Adam thought it over. “They  _ are _ open in the afternoon, but we usually do it at night, ‘cause they let you go in with flashlights and it’s kind of creepy, but I thought maybe since we’ll be doing a race -”

“I vote for nighttime,” said the demon with excellent night vision and the ability to see infra-red. “Might even be  _ spooky _ .”

Newt looked concerned. “They don’t have people that jump out at you or anything, do they?”

Pepper nodded eagerly. “Oh, yeah, during the night time ones sometimes. Depends on the night - we can look when we get there tomorrow.”

“ _ Even better _ ,” said Crowley, who was really warming to this idea and, in fact, was already planning on getting a few ideas for himself … the frustration a maze with no proper exit that you could get to would be a real treat … 

“Oh, I’m sure it will be, with my luck.” Newt sighed. “I’m still in, though.”

“Wicked.” Adam beamed. “We’re definitely going to beat you, by the way.”

Crowley scoffed. “Doubt it. Hate to say it, kid, but the odds are definitely against you on this one.”

“When was the last time you did a maze?” Adam countered.

“Doesn’t matter. I can see in the dark, Book-Girl can open her third eye and view the maze from above or something -”

Anathema frowned. “I cannot do that.”

“Aziraphale did a maze not that long ago -”

“Two hundred years ago isn’t long?” Wensley mouthed to Brian, who shrugged in response.

“And Newt will make an excellent decoy for the inevitable monster attack.”

Newt sighed. “Yes, I will.”

“And I’m not taking it easy on you because you’re a child,” Crowley concluded. “You all are done before you’ve even started.”

Brian nodded. “Okay, Crowley.”

If any of the other Them had a retort, it was cut short by the MC for the evening - Olivia, the usual trivia night leader and announcer - coming over the speakers. “All right quizzers! Answer cards are up with me at the bar; we’ll be starting in ten minutes, so come get your cards and sign your team in!”

Crowley stood before Anathema had the chance. “I got it.”

“No sneak-drinking!” She glared after him. “He’s going to sneak one while he’s up there, I know it.”

“Yes, I’d imagine so. Anyway, I do believe that’s my cue to go.” Aziraphale glanced at his pocket watch. “It’s late - should we call your parents?” he asked the Them. 

“Actually,” Wensley said, “none of us live very far. We can walk home.”

The angel frowned. “Nonsense, it’s much too cold to walk. And it’s dark.”

Newt cleared his throat. “Ah, I was thinking I could walk with them, see them all home safely. I could use the walk, anyway.”

“That’s very nice of you, Newt, but it’s still  _ cold _ .”

Pepper frowned. “We have jackets,” she said, a little exasperated. “We won’t freeze to death, it’s not like it’s snowing or anything.”

“I don’t have a jacket,” Brian added. Newt and Anathema turned to him, both looking equally puzzled. 

“I thought I saw you come in with one?” Anathema shook her head. “I’m  _ sure _ -”

“Oh, I expect he had one earlier. It’s gone now, though. It’ll turn up later.” Adam shrugged. “S’how Brian works.”

Brian smiled cheerfully. “Yep!”

“Well, that settles it, then.” Aziraphale stood up, and tugged his coat straight. “I’ll go with, and keep everybody warm. A walk will be nice, you’re right, Newt.”

“Oh, cool,” said Newt, clearly realizing as he spoke that this new development meant that he would have to walk back to Jasmine Cottage with only Aziraphale for company. Not that Aziraphale wasn’t nice, but Newt always felt on edge around him, like the angel might suddenly decide Newt just didn’t quite respect early-Victorian-era poetry enough and sit him down for an extensive sermon on the subject. It was sort of like hanging around your oldest, most esteemed college professor outside of classroom hours, and trying to be casual, with the ever-present threat of getting a failing mark on your next essay hanging over your head.

Newt tried not to think about the essay-failing part. When dealing with the Guardian of the Eastern Gate, failing an essay probably had much more dire consequences than remedial lectures during the professor’s office hours*. 

[*  _ Which just goes to show how little Newt knew about Heaven. Gabriel particularly enjoyed giving the orientation speeches, especially to the newest souls who might have mis-stepped a little here and there and were already feeling guilty about it. _ ]

Crowley returned, golf pencil and answer card in hand, and thrust them both toward Anathema. “Might have some stiff competition tonight - that Dr. Johnston and some blokes from Oxford decided to hang around.”

“Doesn’t mean they’re smart.” Anathema looked to the card, pencil hovering over the team name blank. “Same name as always?”

“ _ Si non confectus _ .” Crowley flopped into his chair, picked up his coffee, and propped one foot on the table. Anathema nodded and filled the blank in.

“What  _ is _ your team name, usually?” Aziraphale winced preemptively “Much as I’m afraid I’ll regret asking.”

Crowley smiled at him. “Whiskeypedia. Book-girl thought of it.”

“One of my better ideas,” Anathema agreed. Newt bent to kiss her, and she returned it, just a second longer than was possibly necessary, and when she pulled back she was smiling. “See you later? Back home.”

Her boyfriend’s ears flushed red. “Yeah, ok.”

The Them exchanged a look, Brian and Adam wagging their eyebrows, Wensley looking disapproving, and Pepper rolling her eyes. Crowley and Aziraphale, on the other hand, were much less overt, Crowley just raising his mug to the angel and lowering his sunglasses far enough to give his partner a wink. “Later, angel.” Aziraphale nodded and smiled, and Crowley pushed his glasses back up his nose when the rest of the group turned and started weaving their way out of the pub, into the cold night.

“Alright, quizzers, we’re two minutes out! Last call to pick up your cards and pencils!” Olivia leaned in closer to the microphone. “We’re gonna have a real competition on our hands tonight, so I hope you all came ready to play!”

\---

Five hours later, Crowley - who was in a much better mood since the quiz had ended and Anathema had let him have a few drinks - and Anathema were making their way back to Jasmine Cottage, occasionally bouncing off one another as they wove across the street. Anathema’s breath rose in a cloud as she walked, and Crowley didn’t breathe at all. “I  _ told you _ ,” she laughed, bundled into her coat. “I  _ told you _ it was Poland! I actually knew that one!” She elbowed him in the ribs. “You’re supposed to be the one that knows all the history.”

“I told you, Book-Girl, fourteenth century I was off-line. And how on Earth did you know about fourteenth-century Polish royalty, by the way?”

Anathema frowned. “I have no idea. Must have heard it from somewhere.” They turned the corner, onto the street with Jasmine Cottage, and Crowley stopped. Anathema snorted. “Is it really that unbelievable?”

“No.” He wrinkled his nose and then flicked out his tongue, just for a second. “Something’s burning.”

“It’s cold, someone probably has a fire going or something.” She started back up the road again. Warily, the demon followed her, glancing into the woods, the gardens beside the road. Anathema pretended not to notice when he occasionally scented the air. “You don’t think so?”

“Maybe.” He frowned deeper. “It’s not Hellfire, so that’s something. Someone threw gas on it to get it started."

“Right, so probably a bunch of teenagers or something having a bonfire somewhere. Chill.” They wandered up the street, a little quieter but no less companionable, and turned the bend. Jasmine Cottage sat at the top of the road. 

And Jasmine Cottage was on fire.

“Oh, fuck.” Crowley bolted before Anathema’s brain had fully registered that 1) her house was on fire, 2) it was  _ her house _ on fire, and 3) her boyfriend was very likely asleep in that house, and Newt slept like the dead.

Hopefully not literally.

Crowley was fast, faster than she’d ever be even in trainers, and by the time she caught up with him he was through the front door of the house, the long-suffering horseshoe glowing red on the charred frame of the porch. She was relieved to see, when she drew even with the garden wall, that the fire was confined to the shed and the garden, although left unchecked the old house would be involved before too long. She pulled her phone out, but before she’d had a chance to dial she heard a neighbor - Elizabeth - calling to her. 

“I already called! He ran in! That man - your friend with the car - he ran in, I saw him go but I was inside on the line with the fire department, I couldn’t stop him.” She lurched to a stop next to the younger woman, pulling her robe tightly around herself. “It’s nearly at the house.”

Anathema took a deep breath. “It’s okay. The house isn’t on fire yet. He’ll be okay. They can go out the back.” She swallowed. “Newt’s in there.”

“Oh, God.” Elizabeth put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, I hope you’re right.” In the distance, sirens wailed. Anathema felt Elizabeth’s arm around her shoulder, and glanced over to the other woman. “I’m sure you’re right, dear.”

And then, as if on some kind of miraculous cue, Crowley emerged from the front door, shoving Newt and Aziraphale to the right, away from the fire. Newt looked, as he frequently did, bewildered, wrapped up in the comforter with likely nothing else on underneath. Aziraphale and Crowley, on the other hand, were arguing.

“It’s not like this is a habit, dear boy.” He clambered over the garden wall on the far side of the cottage, where the fire still hadn’t reached. Crowley shoved Newt over and then gracefully slid across behind him. “The first time was hardly my fault. And this time, for that matter.”

“Yeah?” Crowley grunted as he slid his hands under Newt’s arms and pulled the man to his feet. “Even so, two fires in five years is a bit much, don’t you think?”

Aziraphale dusted off the front of his waistcoat and frowned. “Well. Yes. I do, I suppose.”

“Oh, you  _ suppose _ ?” Almost as an afterthought, Crowley brushed the ash out of his hair. “Well, I  _ suppose _ -”

Elizabeth sighed, watching with Anathema as Newt padded over toward them. “Thank God they’re alright.” She cocked her head, watching as Crowley and Aziraphale continued to bicker. “Been married long, have they?”

Anathema sighed. “You can’t even imagine.” She glanced back over her shoulder. “We should get out of the way, I’m sure the fire engines will need to park here.”

In the end, the worst of the damage was to the shed, which was a loss, the garden, which Crowley assured Anathema he would have back to rights in the spring no problem, and the rest of the paint on the entryway. Once the fire was cooled to embers, and then sprayed down again for good measure, the fire chief waded into the ruins, where the shed had once stood, took some photos, and then returned with a bottle in hand. Solemnly, he displayed it to a serious-looking man in a suit. “Arson, sir. Looks like a bottle with a rag in. I’ll hand it over to your lab for tests, but my money’s on gasoline.”

“Thank you.” The man nodded, looked to his partner - the man from the pub earlier, DS Winter - and then, as one, they approached the group of residents. “Good evening. Are you the owners of this cottage?” He looked between Anathema, with her arm around Newt, and Crowley, shoulder-to-shoulder with Aziraphale. 

Anathema cleared her throat. “I am. Anathema Device, sir.”

The man nodded. “Very sorry for the circumstances, Ms Device. I am Detective Inspector John Barnaby, this is Detective Sergeant Ben Winters. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Of course.”

“You’re the policeman investigating Lord Bartleby’s murder, aren’t you?” Newt asked. Detective Barnaby looked to him, and he withered. “Sorry, just wondering. Saw you about the village this week.”

“I am,” Barnaby confirmed. “Who was home when the fire started?”

“Um, me and uh …” Newt stammered for a second, and then managed, “Mr. Fell. I was asleep, I didn’t realize there was a fire until he woke me up. Sorry, do you think this might be related to Lord Bartleby or something?”

Barnaby ignored the question. “And Mr. Fell is …?”

Aziraphale raised his hand. Crowley bit back a groan. Like he’d never been questioned by police. “Ah, Ezra Fell, Inspector. I didn't notice the fire until it was quite large; I was reading, you see, and by the time I smelled the smoke it the flames had completely consumed the shed.”

“And you live here as well?”

“Oh! Oh, no, just visiting for the weekend. The ah, the auction at the estate, actually.” Barnaby looked up from his notebook, eyebrows raised. “Er, I’m a rare books dealer -”

“Collector,” Crowley muttered.

“-  _ dealer, _ and as I’m sure you’ve heard Lord Bartleby’s collection was impressive, to say the least.” Aziraphale shifted from one foot to the other, hands clasped behind his back, while Barnaby watched him closely. “Newton and Anathema were kind enough to offer their cottage to us for the weekend so we could stay closer to the estate prior to the auction.”

“Right. And your permanent residence?” 

“Yes, um. In the South Downs -” Aziraphale rattled off their address, and DS Winter dutifully recorded it.

“You don’t really think this is related to the murder,” Anathema said, less of a question and more of a statement. Barnaby sighed.

“Inquiries are ongoing, Ms Device. Now, I’m assuming it was you, sir, that was seen running into the fire?”

Crowley nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Very foolhardy thing to do, that.”

“Can’t say either way, sir.”

“Your name?”

“Anthony Crowley.”

“And you’re also a rare books dealer?”

Crowley scoffed. “Do I look like I run a bookshop? Nah, I’m with him.” He looked to Anathema. “You know, that’s the second time someone’s asked me that when -” Anathema mimed a zipper across her lips, sharply, and Crowley, surprisingly, shut up. “This weekend,” he finished, lamely. “Guess there’s a lot of ‘em coming in for the auction?”

“Hm, yes.” He looked between Crowley and Aziraphale. “Your relationship to one another?”

Slowly, they exchanged a look. Anathema hid her smile behind her hand. She’d seen them try to answer this question exactly once before, and it had ended up in an argument that had lasted a full week and from her point-of-view mostly involved daily morose text messages from Crowley and two sad phone calls from Aziraphale. The entire thing ended when Aziraphale called and she read out Crowley’s texts to her about how bloody sad he was. The angel had immediately hung up and gone to find Crowley sulking in St. James, sinking ducks. 

“Ah, put us down as er …” Aziraphale looked desperately to Crowley, who responded only with a smirk and a raised eyebrow. The angel scowled. “He’s my husband. Not legally,” he added, when Crowley’s grin turned smug.

“Only because you haven’t picked a venue, darling.” Anathema did laugh then, and quickly bit it down, turning away from the two of them and staring fixedly at the burned-up corner of her garden until she felt better. 

Barnaby sighed, the long-suffering sigh of a policeman who knows there’s an inside joke there that he doesn’t get, doesn’t want to get, and mostly just wants to move past so he can go home and try to sneak in a nap before he’s expected back at work. “Can any of you think of anyone who might want to cause you harm in this manner?”

“No,” Newt answered, shaking his head. “No, I’m just … we’re just us. Keep to ourselves.”

“I can’t think of anyone,” Anathema confirmed. Barnaby nodded, made a note, and looked to the other two.

“Not with a Molotov, certainly,” Crowley replied. He shrugged. “Don’t really know of anyone who would go in for that option.”

Aziraphale scowled at him. “I can’t think of anyone.” 

“Right.” Barnaby made another note, and then looked to the group of them. “As I said, I’m terribly sorry about what happened here, but fortunately the fire chief believes that the house wasn’t harmed structurally. Once they confirm that, you’ll be free to return inside.”

“Oh, good.” Anathema sagged into Newt a little. “I’m sorry, it’s been a long night.”

“Mm. Just one more question, ah, Mr. Fell?” Barnaby looked up. Aziraphale hummed in acknowledgement, listening with polite attention. “What was your relationship to Lord Bartleby?”

The angel shrugged. “Passing acquaintances, really. I approached him about buying some of his books some years ago, but he wasn’t interested in selling at that time. I asked him to keep in touch should he ever change his mind.” He shook his head. “I didn’t hear from or about him again until all of this dreadful mess started.”

“Right. Very good.” He snapped his notebook closed, and tucked it away inside his jacket. “Again, my condolences for your shed and your garden.”

“It’s fine.” Crowley waved a hand. “Those peonies were getting uppity anyway, about time they got taken down to size.”

Barnaby stared at him for a minute, and then turned to the DS. They exchanged a look, and then Winters handed his card to Anathema. “If you think of anything, please call that number. We’ll be in touch as inquiries proceed.” She nodded a thank you. “And I believe the fire department has said your home is safe to re-enter. Thanks again for your time.” 

They exchanged handshakes, and the detectives walked away. Newt, still wrapped in the comforter, sighed and looked warily to the house. “Not sure how I feel about staying in there for the rest of the night.”

“What night there is left.” Suddenly, Anathema felt very tired indeed, and she stifled a yawn. “We could stay down at the B&B in the village, if you want.”

“Nonsense, your cottage is perfectly safe.” The way Aziraphale said it, there was a strong suggestion that whether or not that had been true a second ago, it certainly was now.

Newt shifted from foot to foot. “But what if they come back?” 

Crowley leaned back against the stone wall, still cooling, and crossed his arms over his chest. “What if they come back?” Newt made a quiet little ‘oh’ sound, and Crowley gestured to the front door. “Get some sleep, you’ll be fine.”

“If you’re sure …”

“If they come back, I will be delighted to have a chat with them.” He hopped up onto the wall and suddenly, miraculously, was wearing a different coat. Anathema recognized it - black and thicker than the usual number, but with the same sleek lines and fashionable cut. Inside, she knew, there were battery-powered heating pads*. Crowley stuffed his hands into his pockets, and jerked his head toward the house. “Go on, get some sleep.”

[*  _ Which did not, in Crowley’s jacket, actually  _ have _ batteries, but they were there all the same, because they one he’d seen in the shop one time had had them. _ ]

Anathema and Newt, too tired to argue at this point, nodded. “Thanks,” she said, giving the demon an appreciative pat on the shoulder as she walked past, picking her way through the ash on the front walk. Newt followed, his comforter lifted delicately, like a lady’s finery and skirts, as he walked barefoot up the walk. Aziraphale lingered, just for a moment.

“You’ll be alright, will you, dear boy? It’s cold. For you, anyway.”

Crowley shrugged and burrowed deeper into his coat. “Got my coat. All nice and warm. I’ll be great.”

He glanced to the burned garden, blue eyes tight with worry. “It … I know you said it wasn’t, but you’re  _ sure _ it wasn’t Hellfire, yes?”

“Positive. Went out too easy, reeked of accelerant, didn’t attack the house immediately.” He shook his head. “Nah. Just regular fire.”

The angel nodded, but didn’t look any less worried. “ _ Why _ though? It  _ could _ be tied to the murder, I suppose, but Anathema and Newt didn’t know the poor man, and you and I aren’t from around here -”

“No, but you’re a rare books collector.” Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Could be a maniac collector on the loose.” He laughed. “A homicidal rare books collector, alright. You ever seen one of those, in 6000 years? I haven’t.”

“I have not, but humans kill for less.” He wrung his hands. “I do hope it wasn’t Newt or Anathema that was the target.”

“Doubt it. Why strike tonight, when you and I are here? Like, obviously here,” he added, waving an arm in the direction of the pub and then toward the Bentley, which had been parked along the garden wall when they’d left for the pub but had, at the first sign of flames, re-parked itself on the opposite corner. “Nah, my money’s on  _ you, _ Mr. Fell. Some rare book weirdo trying to limit the competition at the auction on Sunday. Tomorrow, that is.” He laid back, one leg draped over either side of the wall. “Could make a good mystery book, if you ever want to try out writing again. Murder in the Stacks. A Series of Murders. The Dewey Decimal Homicides.”

“Needs work. You’re not worried they might try again?”

“Are you?” He looked sideways at the angel. “It’s just some covetous human - nothing you can’t handle, O Angel of the Eastern Gate.” He pulled his hands from his pockets, the better to wiggle his fingers menacingly. “You could do a bit of smiting.”

“I suppose not. But there will be no smiting.” He glanced down the street, toward the pub, before looking back to Crowley. “You think I should warn Dr. Johnston and Mr. Evans?”

“Up to you. No way of knowing if they’ll be targets. Would probably be the decent thing to do, once it’s a reasonable hour.”

“Mm-hm.” Aziraphale looked to Crowley, laid back on the low garden wall, yellow eyes obscured by sunglasses, warm in the heat of his coat. He stepped around to lean over the demon, and smiled. “So husband suited you alright?”

“Best description there is, isn’t it?” He smiled. “Can’t think of a better one.”

“Well. Good.” He glanced to the lingering firefighters and policeman down the wall a bit, and then, quickly, as if afraid he might be caught, bent to give Crowley a quick kiss. “We ought to make it official some day,” he murmured, before standing up properly. “On paper.”

“Like I said: you pick the venue. I’d be honored. Will happily sign my life and my tax information away to you.”

Aziraphale smiled, and chuckled low, soft. “Bringing up taxes is very romantic, I do hope you include it in your vows. Very well. I’ll think on venues.” He turned. “Coffee? I’ll make a pot. Or tea.”

Crowley re-positioned a little, and propped his right ankle on his left knee. “Tea’s fine for now, thanks.” He watched Aziraphale go for a few steps, appreciative, and then a thought occurred to him. His eyes widened behind the glasses. “Oi! No churches!”


	3. Just Shelf It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens. More attempted murder occurs.

Crowley heard Adam coming before he saw him. The kid’s bike tires were skimming the pavement as fast as Adam could probably pedal, and he was panting. He could smell the kid’s fear, too, which was why when Adam finally appeared around the bend, flying toward the front gate, Crowley was standing there, hands in his pockets, waiting.

The bike was dumped to the curb unceremoniously, and Adam ran straight to the demon, who caught him by the shoulders. “Hey, slow down, kid, you’re alright. Everyone’s fine.”

He panted. “There was a fire?” he managed, wide-eyed, looking at the front garden. “My dad said there was a fire here and I didn’t - I wanted to -”

“Deep breaths, there you go.” He guided Adam toward the wall and propped him up against it. Adam leaned down, hands on his knees, while he caught his breath and Crowley rubbed slow, soothing circles on his back. Dog, left behind by the fast pace of the bike, finally arrived, yapping with agitation, and jumped up onto Adam, lapping at his face. “We’re all fine, you’re alright.”

After a moment, the teen straightened up, swallowed, and looked to Crowley, beseeching. “It wasn’t …. Was it?” He looked up, toward the gray, cloudy sky, and then down at the still-damp street. Then back to Crowley. “It wasn’t, was it?”

Crowley waved a hand. “Nah. Just some human.”

“Who?”

Shrug. “Dunno yet. The police are looking into it.” Adam looked scared again, and Crowley sighed, as if much put-upon, and pulled the kid into a hug. “Come here, alright? And don’t tell anyone.”

Adam nodded, head pressed into Crowley’s jacket, and Crowley pretended not to notice the way Adam was shaking, or the suspicious sniffles. Dog sat on his master’s feet and whined. “It’s nothing to do with you,” he murmured, rocking back and forth, foot-to-foot. “Not even sure it’s anything to do with any of us. But it was just a human.”

“When I heard fire.” He didn’t elaborate for a while. Just sniffed, and swallowed, and squeezed Crowley a little tighter. The demon rolled his eyes, but Adam didn’t see it and anyway, Crowley returned the squeeze. “I got scared. But no one’s messin’ about?”

“Oh someone’s  _ definitely _ messin’ about.” Crowley chuckled. “But that detective from the manor - Barnaby - is working on it.”

Adam didn’t respond right away. They stood like that for a while, until Adam’s shoulders stopped shaking. Gently, carefully, Crowley pushed him back, keeping his hands on the boy’s shoulders, until he could see Adam’s face. It was red and blotchy, wet with tears, but he attempted a smile all the same. Wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “You give really good hugs, you know.”

“Shut up.”

The boy sniffled again, and then looked to the burned-up garden, the smouldering remnants of the shed, steaming in the cool morning air. His brow wrinkled, eyes narrow, and he frowned. “Wait. Why’s the murder detective investigating some fire? Doesn’t somebody from the fire department do that?”

“Well if I had to guess, I’d say maybe he thinks it’s related. He was asking Aziraphale about books and that sort of thing.”

Adam nodded. “But he doesn’t think Aziraphale did it, does he?”

“I hope not, I’ll never stop laughing.” Crowley grinned. “Nah, but he was asking about their relationship to one another and everything. Anathema asked if he thought it was related to the murder and he said ‘inquiries are ongoing’ and I’ll give you a hint, Adam, that’s police language for ‘yes, probably’.” He looked the boy up and down, as if seeing him for the first time. “Are you still wearing pajamas?”

“Oh, uh.” He looked down to himself, the soft cotton pants with cheerful owls printed on them. “Yeah. Dad told me as soon as I came down for breakfast -”

Crowley nodded. “Uh-huh. Right, so no breakfast either. Aziraphale can feed you, come on.” He checked his watch. “It’s half-six in the morning,” he said, glancing askance at Adam. “What kind of teenager are you?”

Finally, that drew a laugh from the boy, as they walked up the short path and crossed the threshold. The horseshoe, exasperated after its efforts the night before and the continued flagrant flaunting of its noble purpose, didn’t bother to heat up. “A weird one.” Dog yipped in agreement.

“Yeah, we all knew that.” He pushed Adam toward the kitchen table, and indicated quiet, communicating through a series of gestures that Anathema and Newt were asleep upstairs. He disappeared around the corner then, returning a moment later with Aziraphale.

The angel hurried to Adam and wrapped a blanket around his shoulders. “Dear boy, I’m so sorry to hear how worried you were. How do you like your tea these days?”

“Milk, no sugar.” As soon as he’d said it, Aziraphale nodded, already filling up the kettle. “Did you see anything?”

“No, nothing.” He set the kettle on the stove, clicking on the burner and adjusting it just so before he turned away, and pulled a loaf of bread out of, apparently, the dishware cabinet. Adam suspected it hadn’t actually been there two minutes ago. “I told the police: I was reading, and then I smelled smoke, looked out the window and saw the glow, and ran to get Newt.” A knife appeared in his hand, and he started cutting thick slices off the loaf. “That’s when Crowley ran in and saved the day.”

Crowley sighed. “Yes, as usual.”

The kettle whistled, and Aziraphale poured neatly into three mugs already waiting with tea bags in place. “He’s very good at rescue missions for a demon, you know.”

“For anything,” Crowley corrected. “How many humans do you know that are that good at repeatedly rescuing the same person?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, dear boy.” Eggs were pulled from the fridge, and soon enough there was butter melting on the stove and the small kitchen was filled with the warm smell of french toast. Aziraphale finished the tea and distributed the mugs, putting the kettle back on to boil as soon as he finished and setting out two more mugs. Adam sat with his sort-of-godfathers in peaceful silence for a little while, until rustling from upstairs signaled an incoming new arrival. The teen watched Aziraphale make the french toast, eyes sharp, ready to defend the first batch from whoever joined them. 

Aziraphale opened the fridge and studied the contents. “Do you think they have sausages? Growing children need protein.”

“Eggs aren’t enough?” Crowley raised an eyebrow, and Adam watched the crooked smile flash over the demon’s face. “Behind the jam.”

“I’m sure they weren’t there a minute ago.” He pulled the packet out, and fixed Crowley with a disapproving look. “In fact, I saw them miraculously appear.”

Crowley laced his fingers, the better to rest his chin on while he fixed Aziraphale with a saccharine-sweet smile. “The Lord works in mysterious ways.” And then he snorted, because Aziraphale sighed and looked upwards, likely to hide his own grin, before turning around to set another pan on the stovetop.

Adam sipped at his tea. “They’re the chicken and apple ones, aren’t they?”

“You like those? Huh. Lucky day, then.” He leaned back in his chair and picked up his mug with both hands, clutching it like it was the last warm thing in the world. Which it wasn’t, because he still hadn’t taken off his jacket. 

Anathema shambled in to the kitchen, wrapped up in a thick flannel robe, her chin-length dark hair an unruly tousle. She wasn’t wearing her glasses. “Adam?” She squinted toward the table. “Hey. Morning. Uh …”

“I heard about the fire,” Adam explained. “I had to make sure it was, you know … okay. Everyone had to be okay. And then Crowley invited me in and uh, Aziraphale started making breakfast.”

“Like you do.” She yawned, and dropped into the chair across from Crowley. Aziraphale placed a mug of tea in front of her. “Has anyone ever told you you’re the best guest?” She sipped the tea and closed her eyes, savoring it. “You guys can come over any time, you know that?”

“You only love him for his breakfasts.” Crowley sighed. “But I’ll allow it anyway.”

Aziraphale was busy at the stove, and seconds later there was a full plate of french toast, sausage, and eggs in front of Adam, slathered with warm maple syrup. Adam didn’t really recall there  _ being _ maple syrup on the stove anywhere, but this was Aziraphale, so a few little discrepancies in reality were permissible. The kid tucked in, and Aziraphale started on Anathema’s.

“No sausage for me, please.”

Aziraphale acknowledged he’d heard her, although there was a single sausage frying in the pan anyway. “Did you sleep alright, dear?”

“Once I finally got to sleep.” She yawned again. “I think I’ll take a nap this afternoon while you’re at the preview. Gotta rest up for that corn maze competition.”

Adam’s eyebrows rose. “Oh, uh, you still … I mean, we don’t have to do that, not tonight, if you don’t want to ‘cause of the fire.”

“Why wouldn’t I? I can’t speak for Newt, but I’m still in.” She reached over to rub the boy’s shoulder. “It wasn’t a targeted attack against me or Newt, I don’t think, Adam. The detective seemed to think it might be related to Lord Bartleby’s murder.”

“That’s what Crowley said.” He stuffed a forkful of french toast into his mouth, and everyone else ignored the fact that he had syrup all over his chin. “Why, though? You guys didn’t know him.”

“No, but there’s a connection.” She looked pointedly to Aziraphale as the angel set a plate of toast and eggs down in front of her. 

The angel, for his part, looked unimpressed. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You knew him!”

“I talked to him once, years ago.”

Crowley nodded. “Hardly counts, I’d say. But really, I’m  _ telling you _ , look at it like this: the old guy gets whacked, has this giant library, auction scheduled to disperse all the books, and then the place where one of the potential buyers is staying gets arsoned.” He and Aziraphale shared a look over the rim of the demon’s mug. 

“Well.” Aziraphale was the first to break away, turning his attention to the lone sausage on the stove, which he shook around in the pan a little to brown more evenly. “I’m sure there’s some other explanation. Perhaps one of the people in for the auction brought a hoodlum child with them or something. It might have been perfectly random.”

“I don’t think so.” Crowley and Anathema both looked doubtful, shooting each other significant looks across the table while Aziraphale cooked and Adam watched the events like a spectator at a tennis match. “Anyone you know that might want to kill you?”

“Aside from the obvious?” He looked up, sighed, and then returned his attention to the cooking. He tipped the sausage onto a plate, and set it down in front of Crowley. “No. Eat something, dear boy, it’s been nearly a month and you could use the insulation.”

“M’fine.” But he speared the sausage with a fork anyway and started eating. “Tell you what though,” he went on, mouth full, pointing the impaled breakfast food at the other man-shaped being, “m’keeping an eye on you until this auction is over. No one gets to try to murder you and get away with it while I’m still living.”

“Aw,” said Anathema. Crowley glared at her.

“I’m sure it was a random bout of misfortune.” Behind his back, Crowley looked to Anathema, then Adam, exasperated. They both shrugged, a clear sign of ‘what can you do?’. Crowley sulked. “But if it will make you feel better, dear boy, I won’t turn you away.”

“You’d better not.” 

Adam cleared his throat, all awkward angles as he jutted into the conversation. “Sorry, listen, I’m serious, maybe this maze isn’t such a good idea? Maybe wait for the auction to be over, maybe until they catch the murderer. ‘Cause like, they could be hiding in the corn or something, I’ve seen the movies …”

“Nonsense, Adam. I think it’d do us all good to have a little diversion. Besides, I doubt now that the attack on the poor garden went the way it did the perpetrator will be inclined to try again.” Aziraphale was still busy at the stove, but the way his shoulders squared up a little inferred that if said perpetrator  _ were _ to try again, the angel would probably have something rather pointed to say about it. 

The kitchen lapsed into the busy quiet of cooking and eating and no conversation, although the atmosphere remained as warm as it had been. Aziraphale made up another plate of breakfast and set it aside, an upturned plate overtop to keep it warm, and then started on a final batch. “You know.” He flipped the french toast, and tapped the spatula idly on the side of the pan, “I’ve been thinking I might skip the preview this afternoon.”

The assembled parties looked startled, but Adam was the first to speak. “What? Why?” 

“Because I know what I want and if there  _ is _ a murderer on the loose looking to knock off some rare book collectors, I hardly want to be  _ convenient _ .”

Anathema nodded, looking deep into the dregs of her tea. “He makes a point.”

Crowley looked less reluctant than the two humans, but he hardly looked happy about the prospect. “If you want to go, ah … I’ll go with you, watch your back. Might be a good place to sniff out some  _ ill intent _ , as well, you know? Might be able to get a fix on the murderer.”

“And then what?” Aziraphale clicked the burners off, turned, and sat down with his own full platter of breakfast. “Go to the police and tell them you’re a demon who can sense evil?”

“Er … well  _ no _ , obviously, but … but I’m sure I could phrase it somehow or, or …” He waved his hands uselessly. “Plant some evidence in their car or something.”

“You will do nothing of the sort. As I said: I have my books in mind, I don’t truly  _ need _ to see them before tomorrow, and given current events I don’t think it would be prudent to place myself directly in harm’s way.” He sliced a neat piece off of his toast and stared at Crowley as he chewed. “I just won’t go.”

Anathema rotated her mug a little, squinting at the leaves. “Can’t say I blame you.”

“Thank you, dear. Are you … reading tea leaves?”

“Mm.”

Adam looked curious, and Crowley leaned over her shoulder, for all the good it did him. “What’s it say, then?”

“I mean, you know how these things are. They never outright say ‘don’t go to the preview’ or whatever, but it’s interesting.” She gestured for Adam to come around and take a look. Aziraphale, still eating, watched with mild interest. “See that?”

“Looks like a lump.” Adam cast his eyes down, cheeks flushing a little. “Sorry, Anathema.”

“No, it’s fine, tea leaves are tricky. But look here, at the edge. See the curve?”

“Yeah … okay, yeah.”

“Right. And if you let the curve of the leaf lead your eye …” Crowley had lifted his glasses up, the better to see, and leaned in, but Anathema gently pushed him back. “You’re not fooling anyone, Crowley. You see it, Adam? What does it look like to you?”

“Um.” He put his head to the side. “A bit like … I guess a bit like a letter c? Or maybe a circle.”

“I think circle with a broken segment,” Anathema agreed. “So a bit of both. Which means ‘do not disturb’. Sometimes people interpret that to mean you should let well enough alone, but it could also mean someone shouldn’t be bothered right now, or you shouldn’t try to re-organize something or make a change.”

“Don’t buy new books,” Crowley murmured to his coffee.

“Could be. And how about this one, Adam? Here, near the handle. What do you think of that one?”

“S’a squiggle? Uhm. Maybe a bunch of little circles? I dunno.” He frowned. “How’d you learn this?”

“My mom - she’s the best tasseographer in the US, if you ask me. Or any number of other witches. So you said a bunch of circles?”

“I guess.”

“So I thought maybe it represented a chain. Do you see?”

“Not really.”

She offered the cup to Aziraphale. “How about you?”

“Mm?” He peered into the cup, knife and fork delicately hovering above the plate for just a moment. With rather more intensity than Anathema expected, he stared at the leaves. “Hm.” He set his knife and fork down, the better to dab his mouth with a napkin. “I do see a chain, yes.” Gently, he put two fingers against the bottom of the mug before Anathema pulled it away. She frowned. “You know, Crowley, perhaps we  _ should _ go to the preview.”

Crowley threw up his hands. “Whatever you want to do, angel: I’m free for bodyguard duty all afternoon.”

“What’d you see?” Adam shuffled around the table, now studying the leaves over Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Is that the chain?”

“Yes, there, along that edge.”

“What’s a chain mean?”

Anathema looked to Aziraphale, but he had gone back to his food. Slowly, she pulled back the mug. “A series of events,” she said, when no answer seemed to be forthcoming from the angel. “Usually. Like, there are going to be some events that occur in succession in the future, one after another, all linked together.”

“Could they have already started?” Crowley leaned back. “Not that I believe in any of this, mind you - if the  _ Great Plan _ was wrong what’s to say a bunch of leaves aren’t, too?”

“Agnes wasn’t,” Anathema replied calmly. “And yes, they could have already started. The chain looks like it’s starting near the handle and moving away, which could indicate exactly that. And then here, near that, there’s the lock and trident.”

“Which means?” Crowley asked, exchanging a helpless look with Adam. The boy only shrugged.

“Capture.”

Adam brightened. “Oh! So they’re going to capture the murderer then?” He looked to Aziraphale. “Are you going to do it?”

“The leaves certainly could indicate that, yes.” He took a sip of tea. “What do you make of the central symbol, Anathema? I’m not much at tasseography, just picked a few things up here and there.”

She frowned, and then winced. “Hourglass.”

“Yes, I thought so, rather.”

Adam craned his neck around a little more, and shuffled left, then right, to try to see what Anathema was talking about in the mess of soggy leaves. “So what’s an hourglass mean?”

Crowley waved a hand. “Probably running out of time, running short on time, needing to hurry -”

“Imminent danger,” Anathema said tightly, cutting him off. “Is that what changed your mind?”

“ _ Imminent danger _ changed your mind?” Crowley boggled. “Oh, yeah, sure, love me some imminent danger, let’s run on in and see who can get discorporated first, yeah?” He crossed his arms over his chest and sat back, a fierce scowl on his face. “Absolutely not.”

“But that’s just the thing, isn’t it?” Aziraphale set the cutlery down delicately. “In the case of imminent danger, at least in this instance, you and I only stand to get discorporated. But the  _ humans _ present could die.” He gestured to the cup. “Nothing says that’s about me being in imminent danger.”

“No, but the fire in the garden last night probably did.” Crowley looked to Anathema and Adam. “Someone back me up, here.”

“I see his point,” Adam said to Crowley, sheepish. “You guys can come back.”

“ _ Theoretically _ .” Aziraphale sighed. “Which is a rather good point to raise: neither you nor I are on what could be called good terms with our former head offices. That said, it still is less permanent than actual death -”

Crowley grumbled and looked away, his fingers tightening around his own biceps. “Easy for you to say.”

“And what’s more, we have the advantage of, well, you.” He beamed at the demon. “Your ill-intent senses will likely be quite valuable. And if we could prevent a human from getting hurt -”

“Do I look like a guardian angel?” Crowley raised an eyebrow.

“Guardian demon,” Adam corrected. “And yeah, kinda.” Anathema leaned onto the table and hid her mouth behind her hand.

“Oy, peanut gallery. No helping.” Across the table, the empty plates and the still-steaming cups of tea, Crowley glowered at Aziraphale. “I don’t like this.”

“Your opinion has been duly noted.”

“I will absolutely say I told you so if one of us gets discorporated.” He paled a little. “Once we get a body back, anyway.”

“I would expect nothing less.”

He twisted around to share some of the disapproval with Adam, too, who looked placidly unconcerned. “And I’m not a guardian demon. If anyone from anywhere besides here hears you say that …”

“Okay, but it’s true.”

Crowley stood up abruptly, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Right, I’m taking you home. Your parents probably miss you or whatever.”

“I told them I was going to check on here.” He grinned. “They know right where I am -” He stopped, mostly because Crowley had put a very firm hand on his shoulder and spun him toward the door. Dog, who had been napping under the table, made a little noise as he got to his feet and stretched. “Okay. Bye, I guess. Thanks for breakfast, Aziraphale!”

The angel beamed. “You’re very welcome, dear boy. Crowley, I thought I was to stay within your -”

The demon waved a hand, made a complicated sigil in the air which burned the back of Anathema’s eyes with a magnesium-bright afterglow and smelled like hot charcoal and burning sulfur, and then nodded, satisfied. “Just don’t leave the house until I’m back, you’ll be alright.”

“What did you do?” Aziraphale and Anathema exchanged frowns. “What happens if someone leaves the house?”

“You’ll all die horribly or something.” He sighed. “ _ Nothing _ , of course, that would defeat the entire purpose. But that ward only covers this house, so stay inside it.”

Anathema’s eyes glittered with interest. “What’ll it do if it’s triggered?” 

“Use your imagination. Be back in twenty.” And with that, he gently guided Adam out of the house, Dog trotting at their heels. Moments later, the Bentley growled to life in the road, and they listened as the sound of its engine rumbled away.

“He really would be a very good guardian angel,” Aziraphale told Anathema over his tea. “I rather think some of his better qualities were wasted in his prior line of work, to be honest.”

“Maybe.” She considered it. “Correct me if I’m wrong, though, aren’t guardian angels just supposed to look over their charges and guide them toward safety and prosperity?” She smirked then. “I don’t recall a lot of stories of them vindictively going after people who have wronged their charges and installing power drains in their fuse box to drive their electric bill up.”

Aziraphale shrugged, smiling all the same. “It’s a matter of details.”

\---

It was early afternoon when the Bentley rolled up the long gravel driveway leading to Lord Bartleby’s manor. As Crowley drove, Aziraphale looked around appreciatively: in the late autumn sun, the trees were a riot of burnished golds and reds, the well-kept lawn was a deep green fading to brown, and meticulously-tended hedges lined the entire drive. Down a little hill, there was a flagstone patio decorated with wrought-iron furniture, and though by all accounts Lord Bartleby himself probably had not been able to enjoy it for several years, there was still not a single stone out of place, as if it were just waiting for him to return.

“Proper manor,” Aziraphale said appreciatively. “You don’t see very many of these anymore, all getting sold off for development.”

Crowley was leaned forward, searching for a place to park. “Well, get your eyes full - that’s probably where this one’s headed too, some day.”

“I thought he had it designated to a land trust?”

“For now.” Gravel crunched as the Bentley rolled to a stop, and Crowley shut it off, not bothering to take the keys out of the ignition*. They exchanged a look before they got out. “Right, ten books.”

[*  _ The Bentley was, by this time, notorious among car thieves in southern England, and even if the keys were clearly visible in the ignition at all times, nearly anyone who knew what they were worth would simply walk on by. The last person to try to steal the car had, after a great deal of engine rumbling, been found huddled across the street in a doorway, refusing to leave their shelter until Crowley had shown up and stood guard in front of the car. It was telling that at that point, the would-be thief considered him the lesser of two evils. _ ]

“You’re not really serious about that, dear boy, are you?”

Crowley leveled a solemn look at him over the rims of his sunglasses. “Deadly.”

“Hm. I’ll consider it.” He popped the door open and stepped out. Crowley followed suit, and slowly, pressed against one another but not holding hands, not here, they walked to the front door, which was propped open. There were a few more cars in the driveway that they walked by, mostly middle-of-the-line sedans, although there was a van painted with “Lakshmi’s Rare Books and Antiques”. 

“Competition might be deep,” Crowley remarked, half a step behind Aziraphale as they walked up the steps to the door. “Quite a few cars here, hm?”

“I’m sure there won’t be any trouble.”

Crowley considered that, eyebrows raised. “Maybe not. But, ah, watch your back, yeah?”

“Yes, other buyers can be fairly ruthless. You remember that auction we went to a few years ago, up in Scotland? I’m sure you recall, when -”

“I was referring specifically to murder, but yeah, watch your  _ bets _ too, I suppose.” Crowley snickered. 

The front hall was the picture of an old English mansion, wide and sprawling and richly-decorated. There was a murmur of conversation coming from a room at the far end of the house, and as they stepped inside a young man dressed with thick black-framed glasses and a tuxedo emerged from a separate room. When he saw the pair of them, he looked startled, and barely managed to suppress a yelp of surprise. Behind his glasses, Crowley rolled his eyes.

“Ah! Ah, sirs, so sorry, I was just … Are you here for the preview? Hello, yes. I’m … Martin.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Hi.”

With a friendlier countenance than his companion, Aziraphale stepped forward and offered a little bow, smiling kindly. “Hello, Martin, nice to meet you, I’m Mr. Fell and this is my fr - husband?” He glanced back to Crowley, who nodded approvingly and appeared to be trying very hard not to grin with more cheer than was his usual habit. “Husband, Anthony.”

“Ah, Mr. Fell! Er, Mr. Evans said you might be coming. Please, let me show you to the library, right this way.” Martin bustled off, while Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged bemused looks and followed after him. 

“Anything unusual?” Aziraphale asked quietly, as they wove through the expansive hall, and the voices grew louder. “Any … strange feelings?”

“Aside from absolute terror from the butler? Nada.” He frowned at Martin. “Something’s wrong with him, though. What about you? Any touchy-feely stuff?”

“Nothing unusual.” He glanced around. “Residual traces of love, here and there, but nothing out-of-the-ordinary for an old house.”

The voices grew louder still as they drew up to the doors of what they presumed to be the library. Martin, trying very hard and failing very notably to keep his hand steady, opened the door to the room and bowed a little, gesturing for them to go in. “Straight in there, sirs. I believe the most notable pieces are separated out and placed onto that table, just there, but the entire library will be for sale tomorrow, so if there’s anything in particular you’d like that is not set aside, I’m sure you can discuss that with, ah, Dr. Anand. Yes, she was always so helpful to his Lordship with the collection when … when …” He trailed off, standing up ram-rod straight and picking at the nails of his right hand with his left, fingers trembling all the while. “Well, I’m sure you’ve heard -”

“Yes, dear boy, quite so. There, there.” Aziraphale laid a hand on Martin’s shoulder, and the butler visibly relaxed. Even his slightly-mussed brown curls appeared to lie straighter and more evenly. “It’s terrible what you’ve been through, this past week, I’m sure.”

Martin whimpered. “You have no idea, Mr. Fell. His Lordship never bothered anyone, I still don’t understand … the detectives think it’s over some books?” He shook his head, brown eyes wide and watery. “Doesn’t seem logical, sirs, not over  _ books _ .” Aziraphale smiled, and rubbed his shoulder again, and Martin sniffed. Suddenly, he looked very surprised, eyes widening as he seemed to realize Aziraphale was patting him on the shoulder. “Oh! So - sorry, sirs, here I am nattering on but you’re here  _ for _ the books, yes, of course, please go ahead. Please.”

The angel didn’t respond beyond a soft smile, one final reassuring squeeze to Martin’s shoulder, and a nod. He stepped into the library, immediately spotted by some other rare books person or another, and didn’t seem to notice Crowley lingering behind. Martin the butler certainly had, and he was watching Crowley very nervously.

“Er, sir?”

“Are you working the auction tomorrow, Martin?” he asked, almost disinterestedly. “Escorting people in and the like?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Quite a lot of stress, I’d imagine.”

Martin forced a little laugh, but his hands, folded him front of him, twitched a little. “Oh, well. Nothing outside of my line of duties, and -”

“Thinking of taking some time off after this whole dreadful mess is done with, are you?”

His eyes widened again, and his mouth fell open for a second. “I - oh, sorry, sir, yes, that is to say …” He looked down, and quieted his hands, although his fingers still twitched to busy themselves, to do something, to  _ move _ . “Well, I’ve got family in southern France, and seeing as I’m, ah, out of a job when all of this is said and done …”

What would they do if you scarpered out tonight?” The question was accompanied by a raised eyebrow, and a half-cocked little smirk. “Just … no sense in hanging around for, what? A glorified directory job?” He snorted. “I mean, why hang around here, when you could be relaxing in the sunshine, eh?”

“Because I have to work tomorrow,” Martin said, slowly. “And then there will be the week after while Dr. Anand and her staff sort through the rest of the contents -”

“In charge of that, are you?”

Martin frowned. “Well, no. But if they can’t find something, or … or if there’s something they aren’t sure about, I could answer some of those questions. Possibly.” He glanced around, while Crowley made a show of looking into the library beyond and taking note of each staff member. “Well, I know where most things are, anyway.”

“Eh, they look like a resourceful bunch.” Crowley sidled over to Martin and began strolling around him, watching the butler all the while. “Go on, get out of here before anything else happens. You’re worried about that, hm, Martin?”

“Very.” And then Martin looked confused, like he couldn’t imagine why he would have said such a thing. “Sorry, what - That is to say, I don’t imagine I’d be next, since I’m not much interested in the books and that Detective Barnaby very much seems to think that’s the reasoning behind all of this, being the loose end. But still.” He swallowed. “I found him, you know.”

“Oh, dear.” Crowley clicked his tongue disapprovingly, and slid an arm around Martin’s shoulders. “Must have really taken a toll on you. Don’t think anybody could blame you if you took your leave early.”

“I did … say I’d stay.” But, even as he said it, Martin looked conflicted. Uncertain. 

“So? People say things all the time, doesn’t mean anything.” He shook the young man’s shoulders. “Go on, Martin, get out of here. They’ll manage.”

“But my wages -”

“Here.” Crowley stuffed something suspiciously like a roll of money into Martin’s pocket. “Get out of here, go enjoy southern France. Take some time off, unwind a little, eh?”

“ _ Sir _ I can’t just  _ leave _ .”

“Why not?”

“Because … because …” He looked around for a moment, brow furrowed, eyes still shimmering with tears. “I don’t know. I  _ could _ just leave, I suppose.”

“No reason not to,” Crowley agreed. “You’ve been through a lot, Marty - can I call you Marty?” A nod. “Way more than anything you’re paid to do, hm? And Lordship’s gone, detectives have asked their questions of you, no reason to stick around, is there? You can read up on the investigation from France as well as anywhere else. Better, maybe, with all this mess off your plate.” He gave Martin another little shake. “I’ve got an in at British Airways, if you drop my name you can probably get a pretty nice seat.”

Martin swallowed. “I … well, I suppose, when you put it that way.”

“Mhm. Our little secret, eh, Marty? Tell them Anthony Crowley sent you. Now, get out of here before anyone else makes some trouble.”

He left. No thank you, no goodbye, no wave of acknowledgement. Well, that was being a demon for you. Still, in four hours Martin would be on a plane bound for Nice, nerves a good deal less jangled than they’d been in a week, with his headphones on and eyes closed, wondering why he hadn’t thought of this sooner and why, actually, he’d thought of it in the first place? Had there been someone who brought it up, or … ?

Yes, that was demoning for you, Crowley thought, as he strolled into the library, satisfied with himself. Besides, it was proper demoning, really: without Martin people trying to sort out Bartleby’s mansion would be disoriented and cross, and wasn’t that the whole point? He allowed himself a little smirk, immensely satisfied, before he set off looking for Aziraphale.

He spotted the angel in front of a long dark-wood table, chatting sedately with whats-his-name, Dr. Evans. Mr. Evans? Evans, whatever. Either way, the table was spread with books, and although neither looked to be openly hostile, the body language was chilly at best. There was a book positioned between them, and they were taking turns pointing at it. Crowley started their direction, but halfway there was waylaid by the woman from the night before - Dr. John? Johnston, that was it. She smiled.

“Hallo, Anthony!” She extended her hand and Crowley shook it. “Decided to tag along, did you?”

“Oh, yes. Just for company mostly.” He made a show of looking around the library. “Can’t say I know much about books.”

She laughed. “Oh, I’m sure you know more than you give yourself credit for, hanging around Mr. Fell. There’s nothing here that caught your interest?”

“Don’t read much.” He shrugged. “More go in for audiobooks, myself.”

“Oh.” Her face fell, and Crowley watched her eyes widen as she looked at his glasses, as if noticing them for the first time. “Oh, I’m sorry, I -”

“Hm, no worries. What about you? Anything in particular?”

She sagged, visibly relieved to move on from the awkward moment. “Ah, well,  _ yes _ but I’m not about to get between those two.” She nodded toward Aziraphale and Evans. “There’s a few that I’m interested in that I don’t think they have an interest in, fortunately. They’ll be good boons to the University, if I can manage them.” She glanced back to Aziraphale and then lowered her voice, leaning in closer. “You don’t have any idea which books he’s really after, do you?”

“Not really.” Crowley smirked at her. “I gave him a hard limit of ten books, so we’ll see how that goes. I think he had a list.”

She nodded. “Do you think he’ll stick to ten?”

“Absolutely not.” 

“Well, good effort on your part.” She gave him a consolatory pat on the shoulder. “Worth a try, right? My husband’s always telling me the same thing.” She sighed. “It never works.”

“I’d noticed.” A tray of canapes floated past, and Crowley plucked a stuffed mushroom from the tray. “Well, good luck tomorrow. Positive thinking and all that.” Under the guise of tasting the appetizer, and with a cleverly-timed turn toward the window, he flicked his tongue out.

Yes, there it was. Malice. Faintly, but it hadn’t been there when they’d walked in. He glanced to Aziraphale, still chatting away with Evans, and then around the room. Everybody looked, well, fairly normal. There wasn’t anyone with a funny moustache rubbing their hands together, anyway. And although he could sense the malice in the air, the hostility, the  _ jealousy _ , yes very strong, that one, he thought after taking another cautious sniff, he couldn’t localize it in the cluster of people. He frowned, popped the stuffed mushroom into his mouth, and wove through the buyers.

Fear here, lust there - he walked past that one rather quickly - and yet still, all under the vaguely pervasive cloud of hatred and anger. If he’d still been in the business of proper demon work, he would have honed in on that right away, given them just the little push they needed to take hold of those feelings and mold them into action. As it was, he was retired, and at this point he wasn’t so much looking to foment hatred, but rather head it off at the pass.

He noticed Aziraphale had broken away from Evans while he’d been doing his circuit of the sitting area of the library, and he made his way through the crowd to stand at the angel’s side. “They’re here,” he said, without preamble. Aziraphale nearly choked on his bruschetta. 

“Who is it?” he asked, clearing his throat and dabbing his mouth with a napkin, blue eyes wide as he glanced around. “Who -”

“Can’t tell, and knock it off.” Crowley backhanded him on the shoulder, hard enough to draw his attention back but not nearly hard enough to hurt. “Don’t be  _ obvious _ .” He scowled. “There’s too many people here, and the feeling’s too vague - it’s just sort of hanging over the room. Like a cloud.”

Aziraphale nodded, understanding, although he had only experienced the phenomenon with more positive feelings. “Oh. Yes, that is problematic.”

“What about you? Anything?” He cocked his head toward the other book collector, who had moved on to a little group of people that were smiling and laughing with him about a Steinbeck they all had been eyeing up. 

“Love.” Aziraphale sipped at his cocktail. “All around. Left in the books, of course, but nearly everyone here is excited and happy and in love with something.”

“Bit morbid.” Crowley thought the information over though while he leaned over to take a sip from the little stirring straw in Aziraphale’s drink. “Wonder if that’s part of the problem, though? All these people, mostly positive emotions … maybe it’s scrambling the negative ones.” He picked the piece of fruit out of the drink and ate it, rind and all. “Must be it.”

Aziraphale nodded. “It would make sense. But if you can’t hone in on the source of it, could they act?”

“Oh, I dunno,” Crowley replied with a shrug. “Certainly have enough anger, I suppose. I’ve seen humans kill with less. But that’s all I can tell.” He looked sidelong to the angel. “You know we’re not fortune-tellers.”

“I suppose not.” He sighed. “Perhaps if you tried to get people off on their own? I could help.”

“What, like cut them out from the herd? Might work.” He looked thoughtful. “I think I saw a few people go into the deeper shelves, let me start with them, then we can work on breaking away people in the crowd.”

“Yes. Oh! And I’ll watch the door for now. If you sense it dissipate, let me know - I’ll see who leaves.”

“Good idea.” Crowley squeezed his shoulder, Aziraphale’s dun coat rough and familiar under his palm, and turned to stalk off into the deeper shelves. “See you in a minute, don’t wander off.”

Aziraphale, positioned by the table of light hors d'oeuvres, beamed. “Don’t worry, I won’t.”

It took a bit of inconspicuous wandering for Crowley to find the first patron in the depths of the library. He was a young man, couldn’t have been older than twenty, gazing covetously up at a matched set of leather-bound tomes. “He has the gold editions,” he sighed, as Crowley drew even with him.

Crowley licked his lips. No, not here. If anything, it was weaker back here. “Valuable, are they?”

The man blushed. “I … not really, I think. I just like them. I suppose they are to me, but not traditionally.”

“Ah. Well, less competition for you then, hm?” The brightened the young man’s face a bit. “Good luck tomorrow.” The man bid him the same, and Crowley left, making a show of examining a few spines of books along the way (although to him, they were just a collection of smudges lumped together, but nobody needed to know that). He rounded the corner, skipped the empty row next, and then came to another browser, who was surreptitiously running their hands along the spines of some books. He paused but no, not here either, just the same jealousy over-run with a pervasive but non-focal sense of anger. He moved on.

He went past three more aisles of books before he found the next person. It was a woman, tall and dark-skinned, with long black hair pulled into a braid that was ornately arranged on the back of her head. Crowley hadn’t seen her before, but the anger was a little stronger here, so he wandered over, nodding appreciatively at some of the more ornate-looking books as he passed. The woman looked over to him, pausing in her perusal of the shelves. 

“You’re with Mr. Fell,” she said, without preamble. 

“Hm? Oh, yes. Anthony Crowley. You are … ?”

“Dr. Lakshmi Anand.” She offered her hand and he shook it. “I am curating the unsold books for the estate after the auction.”

He nodded. “I see. Think there’ll be many?”

“Depends.” She allowed herself a wry smile, and looked to him sidelong, not turning away from the shelf. “I hear you placed a limit on Mr. Fell’s purchases. May cut into the sales tomorrow.”

Crowley laughed. “Well, maybe. But I don’t much fancy sleeping with books in the bed, which is bound to happen sooner or later. Sooner rather than later, at this rate,” he added. They lapsed into a pleasant silence, Dr. Anand studying the books and Crowley feigning the same. Casually, after a moment, he spoke. “Terrible business with Lord Bartleby, isn’t it?”

“Dreadful,” she agreed. “And I heard about the fire last night, as well.”

“Did you?”

“Yes. The detectives were discussing it this morning.” She shook her head, her expression sad and solemn. “I hate to think they might be related. His Lordship’s murder was bad enough on its own.”

Crowley made a noise of agreement. “And why over books?” He gestured to the shelves before tucking his hands back into his pockets and shrugging. “I mean, it’s an impressive collection to be sure, but we’re hardly talking about gold bullion here.”

“Aren’t we? It might as well be, to some. Possibly even more valuable. Books hold knowledge, Mr. Crowley - that has a value beyond what gold can offer.”

“Don’t I know it,” he muttered. “Any books in particular that might be … unusual?” It was an angle that he had only peripherally considered up to this point. “I didn’t get a good look at all of the titles, but anything, you know. Rare.” He rocked back and forth from his toes to his heels. “Eldritch histories, occult practices, that sort of thing?”

She nodded. “Ah, the dark ritual angle. You know, something similar occurred to me when I heard about the murder, but I didn’t see any books listed that might contain some kind of forbidden knowledge.” She gestured to the books at the top of the shelf they were stood in front of. “These were the closest thing I could find, and they’re just a series of old witchfinder instructions. Interesting, to be sure, but I don’t necessarily think it’s anything worth killing somebody over, if such a thing even exists.” She scoffed. “Not like you could summon a demon that will … oh, you know, grant all your wishes, or whatever it is demons do.”

“I think that’s djinn,” Crowley responded absently. “Demons don’t go in for wish-granting usually. Er. I’ve heard.” 

“I wouldn’t know.” She was watching him, looking him up and down, but if she reached any conclusions from her inspection she didn’t voice them. Instead, she sighed heavily. “Such a shame. I had hoped to speak with Lord Bartleby in depth in the coming weeks about starting to represent the less desirable aspects of his collection, but here we are. A terrible shame.”

“Hm.” Now it was Crowley watching her, eyes narrow behind his glasses. She wasn’t moving much, which was a hindrance, but the little movements she did make didn’t seem tense or nervous. No, she seemed at ease here among the books, and sad. There was anger still hovering in the air, getting stronger and thicker the longer he stood here, but Dr. Anand was just … sad. He turned away as if to study a line of books and scented the air once, just to confirm, and no, the anger was here - getting stronger - but it wasn’t Dr. Anand. He needed to keep moving. “Well, good luck tomorrow, I suppose.”

“Yes, I suppose. Nice to meet you, Mr. Crowley.”

“Likewise.” He stalked away. So not her, either. The sense of malice was getting stronger, oppressively strong almost, so they must be close. He paused at the end of the row, glancing over the assembled crowd. There was Aziraphale, leaning over some old book or another, while someone was chattering in his ear about who knows what. The rest of the people were milling around, some talking, some admiring the books, and all surrounded by a cloud of rage that was almost choking by this point, whether they knew it or not. 

It was too non-specific. Too many people in too small of a room, although the library was not traditionally  _ small _ in any sense of the word. There was something else as well, a sharp edge of ill-intent. Crowley had felt this before, usually before the first punch was thrown, or a shot was fired. It was building to a point, and at the moment he wasn’t able to narrow it down to a source which meant the  _ safest _ course of action would be to get out of there before anything else happened. At least, he thought, weaving through the crowd and back to Aziraphale, the books would be safe. If someone was willing to kill to get these books, they wouldn’t dare damage them.

He was within arm’s reach of the angel when the first crack sounded. Over the murmur of the guests it wasn’t particularly audible, but it resonated in the soles of his feet and he spun around, back towards the shelves. “Angel,” he said, urgently. “Oy, ‘Ziraphale.”

Aziraphale looked up, his expression shifting from mildly disinterested to alarmed when he caught sight of Crowley. “Hm? What -”

The second crack was too loud to miss. More importantly, the crash of a shelf-full of books cascading suddenly - horribly - onto the floor was even harder to ignore. People screamed, and ran for the door. Aziraphale and Crowley ran for the shelf.

“No one hurt,” Aziraphale said urgently, snapping his fingers and making a complicated gesture as he did so. They rounded the corner into the appropriate aisle, floor strewn with books and air choked with dust, and caught sight of the shoes sticking out from beneath the shelf and the books. It might have been funny, reminiscent of  _ The Wizard of Oz _ , if it hadn’t just happened to someone right in front of them. “Help me lift the shelf, Crowley.”

In truth, Aziraphale needed no help lifting the shelf, but Crowley made a show of it anyway, if only for the plausible deniability it would afford the gathering humans later. “I’m not hurt!” the woman under the shelf was saying, as they pushed. “Oh, God, I could have been killed, I -”

“There, there.” The shelf righted, Aziraphale bent over a woman Crowley recognized as Dr. Johnston, who was stunned, covered in books, her hands blindly clutching at the book in her lap like some kind of comfort item. “You’re not hurt.” It might have sounded like a question, but Crowley knew better. He’d smelled blood when the shelf had fallen, not much but enough, but that was gone now: the doctor looked disheveled, but otherwise no worse for the wear. 

“I … I don’t think I am. Oh, God.” Aziraphale carefully started removing the books from her person and stacking them to the side*, the better to seat himself next to her with his arm around her shoulders. “I don’t know what happened.” She looked up to the shelf, eyes wide. “How did that happen?”

[*  _ Urgency of the situation notwithstanding, there was no real reason to just start throwing books around like some kind of monster _ .]

“Accident?” one of the assembled humans suggested. Aziraphale and Crowley, on the other hand, exchanged a look, and wordlessly, Crowley started inspecting the book case, very careful not to touch anything. 

“I don’t think so.” Dr. Anand had joined the crowd, and pushed her way through to kneel beside Dr. Johnston. “Someone call the police. Don’t touch anything,” she added, this specifically to Crowley, who was inching closer to the bookshelf. “Nobody should leave.” The assembled people began muttering among themselves, some obviously wanting to approach Dr. Johnston, but between Dr. Anand on her left and Aziraphale on her right she was obviously in good hands. Crowley, on the other hand, was still examining the bookshelf and occasionally, when he thought himself inconspicuous enough, scenting the air for additional clues.

The malice was still there, focused around the ruined shelf now, although there was plenty hanging around, heavy in the air even so. And now there was  _ fear _ , oh yes, lots of fear, but tinged with … frustration? Relief? And then still there was the same jealousy from before, so much jealousy, enough to make you choke. Crowley breathed it in, and tried to localize it.

The fear was coming from the crowd. No surprise there. But there was anger, too, in the crowd. Crowley could have groaned, of  _ course _ it would be a crowd.

Like a cutting horse into a herd of cattle, Crowley turned from the bookshelf and waded through the assembled people. It was harder in human form, but he made do, brushing past people, feeling for any sense of anger. “You alright?” he asked one man, who was trembling and clearly trying not to cry. He put a hand on the man’s shoulder, and the fear he felt there roiled his belly. The man replied with something Crowley didn’t pay any particular attention to, and the demon nodded and moved on, sparing the human a final pat on the shoulder. “You’ll be alright in a few hours, once the shock passes.” And, with that little sentence, the man would.

It was hard with all of the fear, and when the police started to arrive, Crowley gave up altogether. There was anger now from the police officers too, and it was all so cloudy and non-specific that he was starting to get a headache. 

“Any luck?” Aziraphale asked, after he and Dr. Anand had handed Dr. Johnston over to the medics for a check-over and a warm drink. Crowley had returned to him, slouching into place at the angel’s left elbow, as usual. 

Crowley shook his head, frowning. “Nothing. Well, not nothing. Nothing I could discern. Too many people.” He sniffed. “Someone was  _ really angry _ before the shelf went over though.” He looked sideways at Aziraphale. “Definitely was intentional.”

“It certainly was,” Aziraphale replied, tone cold and hard. “There were cracks in the front portions of the two lowest shelves - even with a slight touch the thing would have gone over. And when I looked closer,” he added, voice hushed, “they weren’t even cracks at all: someone had filed them in.”

“Bit inelegant, isn’t it?” Crowley looked around the assembled patrons. “Could have gotten anyone. Unless that’s the point?”

Aziraphale was an angel, but he wasn’t naive or stupid. He nodded, looking over the assembled people. “If enough people fear they might be harmed in the course of the auction, say, if they believe they might be killed just for showing an interest in Lord Bartleby’s books, it certainly could thin the possible buyers out. Although, what if it  _ was _ targeted? Dr. Johnston was certainly one of the more prominent possible buyers, wasn’t she?”

“Yeah. But how would they have set that up? Unlikely.” Aziraphale shrugged. “At least,” Crowley muttered, watching as the police officers made their rounds, “we know one thing: that fire last night  _ probably _ wasn’t random. Looks like DI Barnaby had the right of it all along.”

“It does, doesn’t it. Ah, speak of the devil.” Crowley scowled, although whether it was from the turn of phrase or the approaching detective was unclear. Aziraphale forced a warm smile onto his face as DI Barnaby walked over, looking altogether annoyed with the entire affair. “Glad to see you here, Detective Inspector.” His eyes flickered to the notebook already in the man’s hand, and his smile wavered. “How can we be of service?”

“You two, I’ve been told, were the first to Dr. Johnston after the shelf fell,” Barnaby said without preamble. “Please tell me what you saw.”

Crowley shrugged. “We heard it going first, that’s why we headed over there to start with. By the time we got there it’d already gone: we could see Dr. Johnston underneath it, I suppose, and a lot of books, but that was all.”

“Mhm. So you heard the shelf start to fall?”

“There was a … a sort of cracking noise,” Aziraphale said, waving a hand vaguely. “Like, well, like wood breaking. Which it was, I suppose. Must have done.”

“Must have,” Barnaby agreed, making a note. “Did you see anybody else when you arrived to find Dr. Johnston under the shelf?”

“No,” they answered in unison, and then exchanged a look. Aziraphale continued, “No, sorry, it was just Dr. Johnston below the shelf. We lifted it off of her as fast as we could.”

“Yes, about that.” Barnaby looked up sharply. “Oak shelves, these, very heavy - just the two of you lifted the entire shelf?” He made a show of looking over the pair of them. Crowley nearly snickered: he was right to be suspicious, he knew well enough that from the detective’s point of view it looked like a fussy middle-aged bookseller and his bean-pole husband had managed to lift an incredibly heavy shelf without so much as breaking a sweat.

“Adrenaline, I suppose,” Crowley answered. He looked around and in that moment decided that annoyance to match the detective’s own might suit well enough for now. “Detective, just  _ what _ is going on here? Last night there was the fire - which I’m  _ starting _ to think might have been a targeted attack - and now -”

Barnaby cut him off with a raised hand. “Inquiries are ongoing, Mr. Crowley. Did you see Dr. Johnston before the incident, either of you?”

“Yes, I spoke to her just after we arrived.” Crowley crossed his arms. “And before you ask, no, she didn’t say anything out-of-the-ordinary.”

“What do you  _ do _ for a living, Mr. Crowley?”

Crowley smiled serenely. “Consulting. Is that relevant?”

“Consulting for what?”

Aziraphale was watching him, blue eyes attentive but unalarmed. Crowley, for his part, shrugged and looked casual. “Oh, a bit of this and a bit of that. Mostly an ideas guy, really. What do they call them these days - thought leader? Done a bit of corporate advice, a bit of communications, you know. All sorts.”

“I see. And to be clear, you have  _ no _ vested interest in books or sales thereof?”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Beyond Azir - er,  _ Ezra _ ’s interest in books no, none whatsoever.”

“Yes, understood.” Barnaby turned his attention away from his notebook, where he had scribbled something, and back to Aziraphale. “Are there any books in particular you are interested in?”

“Several. Many, really, but I’ve had a limit imposed on me.” The last was said with some terseness, and a definite sharp glance at Crowley. “I can furnish you with a list of my top ten, if you’d like? Only I can’t see why that would be helpful.”

“You can’t believe this is all over one book, can you?” Crowley scoffed. “I suppose I see the logic to it, but surely, Detective,”

“ _ Inquiries are ongoing _ .” He snapped his notebook shut. “Yes, Mr. Fell, if you don’t mind, my detective sergeant will meet you at your current place of stay as soon as we’re through here. And to be clear: you saw, heard, or noticed  _ nothing _ suspicious leading up to the collapse of the shelf?”

“Not a thing.” Aziraphale wrung his hands. “Dreadful business.”

“What about the butler? Mr. Crowley, I believe you were the last person seen speaking with him, and we’re not able to find him at this time.”

Crowley did his best to look surprised. “Dunno. He was pretty torn up when we spoke, kept almost crying. I told him to go relax, have a cuppa somewhere quiet. Not sure where he went after that.”

“Right.” Barnaby looked at them both sternly, like a teacher might at two unruly pupils. “Do call me if anything else comes to mind.”

“Absolutely,” Aziraphale replied, nodding, his tone completely earnest.

“Can’t imagine what would,” added Crowley. Barnaby glared at him for a minute, and then turned to walk away, on to the next person. “I think he suspects me,” he said, when he was sure Barnaby was out of earshot.

Aziraphale looked surprised. “Why would he?”

Crowley shrugged, and then gestured to himself. “First on the scene at the fire and this, sort of vague about my job, and look at me. Not exactly the picture of wholesome values, am I?” He grinned. “I mean, by design, but still.”

“Nonsense, dear boy. You look perfectly whole to me.” In spite of himself, Crowley blushed, which elicited a smug little smirk from Aziraphale, even as the angel smoothed out Crowley’s lapels. “Not a thing out of place.” He looked around then, and sighed. “I’ve not been involved in a murder investigation in some time - how long do you imagine they’ll hold us here?”

“You’re asking me? That’s stereotyping, angel.” He wilted a little under Aziraphale’s level gaze. “A couple of hours. They can’t justify holding anyone much longer than that, unless they have specific evidence.”

Aziraphale looked to the appetizers, still warm on the tables. “At least there’s food. Do you think we’ll make it out of here in time to meet with Adam and the rest?”

“Huh? You can’t be serious about still going with that, angel.” He swept out an arm, indicating the rest of the room. “There’s a crazy book-collector-murderer on the loose.”

“And I very much doubt I’ll be in danger during a fine night out in a  _ maze _ .” He shook his head incredulously. “You can’t booby-trap a maze for just one person, Crowley, and certainly whoever is carrying all of these terrible things out isn’t going to just strike randomly.”

“You can’t be sure of that. You know humans: they’re absolutely mad sometimes, Aziraphale.” He thought back to his earlier assumption that whoever it was wouldn’t hurt the books, and then finding the toppled bookshelf with Dr. Johnston trapped underneath it.

“Not that mad.”

“What about the bookshelf? Could have killed anyone in here!” he hissed. “They had no idea who -”

“Didn’t they? What if they triggered the shelf to fall? In either case, they knew that whoever would be the victim would be a potential buyer. No one else is here.”

“ _ I’m _ here!”

“Ah.” Aziraphale’s face fell. “Right. Well. Odds are on a buyer, anyway.” Crowley scrubbed his face with his hands, pushing his glasses up into his hair for just long enough to do so. Aziraphale patted his shoulder. “I’m sure the police will figure it out, Crowley. This was bold - there must be some evidence here.”

“Well, yes, but will they find it before anyone else gets killed, is the question,” Crowley grumbled in response. “Particularly  _ you _ . Or me, I suppose.” He suppressed a shudder. “I really don’t want to know what’s going to happen if I discorporate, these days.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Me neither. We’ll just have to be careful. I’ll stay on my toes, you stay on yours.”

“Fine by me.” He flicked his tongue out, making a point, and then said, very quietly, “You know, just before it happened, there was just boatloads of anger, right? I couldn’t even figure out where it was coming from, there was so much.” They both, together, glanced around suspiciously at the police, and the assembled patrons. “It was just too many people. I couldn’t get an accurate read.”

“And now?”

Crowley waved his hands vaguely. “S’all confused now. Just … mixed up. Sad and scared and angry and whatever else you’re getting.”

“Not much,” Aziraphale admitted. “Situations like this favor you, I daresay.” He sighed. “A blessing we could get to Dr. Johnston in time, though, wasn’t it?”

“You’re welcome.” He made a show of examining the other humans all around. “Could probably get to the rest with just a bit of snooping …”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No. No, the police have it in hand, and with this latest change I’m sure it won’t be long now.”

“Someone else could -”

“No. No messin’ about,” he added, in the same tone as an eleven-year-old Adam had used a few years ago, when the Apocalypse had quite literally been upon them. “This is what the humans do.”

“And sometimes they  _ die _ .”

Aziraphale looked steadfast. “They won’t die.”

Crowley looked around. “You can’t bless them all,” he hissed. “What, you’re going to just -”

“Just a general blessing.” He cleared his throat. “Nothing specific. Long life, safe travels, that sort of thing.” He paled a little at the effort while his fingers twitched - there were a lot of people, after all - and then straightened up, tugging at his waistcoat. “Right. No more deaths, at least not in regards to this terrible business. Should give the police time to get to the bottom of it, not that it’ll be long.”

“Uh-huh,” said Crowley, who was a good deal more familiar with police than Aziraphale was. “Alright.” He did not point out that the murderer was likely in their midst, and therefore had just received the same scattershot blessing that Aziraphale had granted to the rest of the room.

The angel brightened, or tried to, although he still looked a bit tired. Large-scale blessings, Crowley knew, would do that to you. “I have to say, after that I’m feeling a bit ah, well.” He looked around. No one else seemed to be paying the food laid out any mind. “I don’t suppose they’d object to me eating some of this food, would they? It’s hardly as if it’s evidence.”

“Hardly.” Crowley took him by the elbow, the better to assist him to the forgotten hors d'oeuvres. “Come on, angel - better have your strength up in case the police don’t manage to figure it out.” 

“I’m sure it won’t come to that.”

“Mhm. I’m sure.”


	4. A Bit Corny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was really what inspired the entire fic. Yes. The corn maze chapter. Initially I was just going to write about the Armageddon crew doing a corn maze, but then I thought, you know what? Why _not_ make it a part of a giant fic with murder and intrigue and whatever. Because sometimes, I guess, I just be like that.
> 
> Anyway hope you like it. Leave your murderer guess in the comments, we're getting close to the big reveal.

The place was called ‘Tadfield Dell Adventure Farm’, and it was settled in, appropriately, a dell just outside of Tadfield. Oddly enough, the behemoth of Lord Bartleby’s mansion overlooked the place, and Crowley and Aziraphale each caught the other looking up at the thing, looming even in the dark of early evening, as they got out of the Bentley, Adam and Brian in tow. Parked right next to them, Newt, Anathema, Wensley and Pepper were in the process of carefully extricating themselves from Dick Turpin without tipping the car over, always a feat, especially when disembarking from the back seat. 

“You know,” Crowley griped, as the car wobbled dangerously with Pepper’s careful movements, “I might have to break my personal policy of never doing anything nice for you, Pulsifer, and buy you a new bloody car one of these days.” He gestured to the Robin. “This thing is atrocious. I’d call it an affront to God, but that would indicate I approve of it on some level.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my car,” Newt muttered, shoulders hunched up and defensive as he wrestled the key into the slot to lock it up.

“Oh he’s  _ locking it _ .” Crowley rolled his eyes, although in the early evening darkness and with the sunglasses, it was impossible to tell. “Just in case anyone wants to steal it.”

“He mostly worries about the stereo,” Anathema clarified. Newt glared at her. “What? Not like they’re gonna make a fast getaway. The stereo’s the most valuable thing about it.” She softened, and pulled him close. “And, of course, the sentimental value. You know we all love Dick Turpin.”

“It’s rubbish but like, a good rubbish,” Adam said. “You know like, how there are really bad movies but you love ‘em anyway? Like that.”

Brian nodded enthusiastically, bounding onward as the group gradually made their way to the entrance. “Like  _ The Meg _ ! Or any of the  _ Jaws _ sequels. Adam, what’s the theme for the maze this year?”

“Outer space, I think. Saw it in the paper.”

Crowley looked thoughtful. “I liked  _ Jaws 3 _ .”

Aziraphale, who had sat through  _ Jaws 3 _ for Crowley on one rainy afternoon at the cottage two years ago, nodded. “Yes, but it is terrible, dear. Doesn’t mean you can’t like it.”

“I liked the bit with the dolphins.”

“Yes, I did as well.”

Anathema was watching them, amused, as they all walked. The Them, fed up with the pace of the adults (and similarly-shaped beings), had hurried ahead, already strategizing their plan of attack for the space-themed maze. From what could be overheard, the plan mostly consisted of arguing over whether or not to just take all right turns or all left turns, and if hiding in the corn and jumping out to scare the opposing team counted as cheating.

“This really means a lot to them,” she said, nodding her head toward the kids. “After the afternoon, you didn’t have to come, honestly, that’s a lot to take in.”

“No one was hurt,” Aziraphale replied lightly. “We’ve seen worse. The police have it all well in-hand.”

“You keep saying that,” Crowley said, tossing his head back and throwing a little extra exasperated swagger into his walk, “but you have very little evidence that that’s the case.”

Newt hedged, firmly on Aziraphale’s side on this matter, “I’m sure they do. That detective seemed very competent. And after everything that’s happened, surely they must have enough evidence to have an idea -”

“I think they think I’m doing it.” Crowley heaved a sigh, and slouched even more aggressively, if that were possible. “It’s stereotyping, it is.”

“Oh? The police know you’re a demon?” Anathema fluttered her eyelashes, the very picture of polite confusion. “Did they do some light incantations this afternoon, just to make sure no occult beings were around? They really  _ have _ expanded their purview.”

Aziraphale was smiling, and even Crowley barked out a little laugh at that. “I certainly didn’t tell them, although I do think you weren’t helping your case. You could have been rather more open with the detective when he asked about your line of work.”

“Oh, so you  _ told _ them you’re a demon then,” Anathema said, as if she understood. “Right, gotcha, good a time as any, huh?”

“He took it very well,” Crowley said, playing along. “Didn’t even try an exorcism, just started in about keeping the unlicensed tempting to a minimum.”

Newt gaped. “He did? You - you didn’t …. This is a joke, right?”

Crowley snorted and slapped Newt on the back. “No, Pulsifer, it really happened. Good old Detective Inspector Barnaby asked what I did for a living and I said ‘just a simple demon, me. Tempting and the like. It’s not much, but it’s dishonest work.’”

Aziraphale and Anathema were stifling laughter, Aziraphale carefully looking away toward the borders of the maze. Newt scowled. “Hilarious.”

“It’s just so  _ easy _ , Pulsifer.” Crowley waved a hand vaguely. “Low-hanging fruit and all that.” Ahead, the Them were clustered around the admission gate, and as a group, they turned expectantly back to watch the approach of the second and more fiscally advantaged half of the group. “I think they want us to pay,” Crowley muttered. “Leeches.”

“They  _ are  _ children, Crowley.” Aziraphale patted his pockets. “I know I brought some money for the auction, I do hope I didn’t leave it in my other coat.”

“I got it.” Anathema stepped ahead to the gate, and paid the smiling woman at the register. One-by-one, the attendant applied a flimsy paper bracelet to everyone’s wrist, carefully adhering the ends together and marking them as legit, paying customers. 

“How novel,” Aziraphale remarked, admiring the little bracelet. 

Newt looked puzzled at that. “Have you not seen these before?”

“Never.”

“He doesn’t leave his bookshop if he can help it,” Crowley reminded them, grinning in spite of Aziraphale’s exasperated glare. “Do I lie?”

“... I suppose not about that.”

“Thank  _ you _ .”

There was a stack of papers on the other side of the gate, and Adam seized two immediately. “Right,” he announced, handing one to Wensley and one to Newt. “Those are the maps. This is the rules.” He flinched, mostly because Pepper had shone her flashlight into his face. “Oy!”

“Sorry. Thought I’d give you a spotlight.” She let the flashlight beam fall, giving Adam a moment to blink and let his eyes re-adjust. “Sorry.”

“S’fine. Anyway, the rules. So if you look at the paper -” they all did, obediently, “- there’s a big square for all the little puzzle pieces. Each piece you get you can put together to make a big picture of the maze like it looks from above.” Aziraphale and Anathema nodded. Newt mostly looked perplexed. “So like, me an’ Wensley talked about it, an’ if you gotta get all the pieces before you can leave we might be here all night. Well, we won’t, ‘cause we’re gonna win.” He ignored Crowley’s little noise of disbelief. “But it could happen. So we decided that each square’s gonna be worth points.”

“And actually, since there’s fifteen squares,” Wensley went on, “we made the rules so that if you get all the squares, even if you don’t finish first, you still might win.” The opposing team exchanged a look. “So the team that finishes the maze first gets forty points, but each square is worth four points, so if the second team gets all the squares, they would still win with sixty points.”

Pepper nods. “And there’s incentive to get some of the squares anyway, even if you’re not trying for completion, because if you finish first, you still have to get five squares to win.”

“You will also notice,” Adam went on, like a ringleader at a circus*, “that there’s a crossword puzzle, too. So each word on the crossword is worth two points.”

[*  _ Which was not a poor comparison, in this instance _ .]

Aziraphale’s lips were moving as he tried to work out the math, and Newt was ticking things off on his fingers. “So you get a mix of squares and words, and you could win so long as you finish first, without completing anything but the maze, got it,” Crowley said. Then, more quietly, as he leaned in to Aziraphale, he asked, “What’s the bit at the top say?”

“The theme of the maze is space exploration,” Aziraphale replied. “The sides of the path of the maze are marked with colored ribbon, which correlates to the celestial bodies depicted in the map itself. Or white, for the astronaut’s suit.”

Crowley looked impressed. “Clever.”

Brian nodded. “It’s wicked fun, too. ‘Specially in the dark.”

“So let’s go!” Adam spun for the queue that led to the entrance of the maze, the Them trotting after him, chattering excitedly amongst themselves. The others followed at a more sedate pace, Aziraphale looking wistfully at a kettle corn stand as they passed it.

“Get you some after, if you cheat a little,” Crowley offered.

Aziraphale scoffed. “I’ll buy it myself then, with a clean conscience.”

“You’re no fun.”

Anathema shrugged. “But he’s fair. I’ll split it with you, Aziraphale.” And then she laughed, because she saw the way he frowned at that, immediately trying to concoct the most polite way he could think of to say ‘get your own’. “I’m kidding; they have ice cream over by the finish, I’ll probably get some of that.”

“Ice cream? It’s freezing.” Crowley looked appalled.

Anathema grinned, and Newt sighed. “Doesn’t matter. She ate ice cream at Christmas, last year.”

Aziraphale hummed over that, but he was smiling. “Not a traditional Christmas food, is it?”

“Bet Yeshua would have loved ice cream.” They were following the Them through a corridor cut into the corn as they talked, although Newt and Anathema paused for half a step when Crowley mentioned Yeshua. “Always had a sweet tooth, that one. I  _ almost _ got him to eat in the desert, you know, with some figs, but if he was anything, it was stubborn.”

“Faithful,” Aziraphale corrected. “And devout.”

“Call it what you will.”

The corridor led to an open rectangle that was filled with benches. At the front of the little area, there was a staff member with a bullhorn, smiling at the arriving patrons. The kids had already settled onto a bench, elbowing one another and passing the map back and forth while they continued to strategize. There were a few other groups seated around as well, engaging in a similar pre-maze ritual. Anathema and Newt headed toward a particular bench, the supernatural pair in tow, but halfway there a familiar voice stopped them.

“Mr. Fell! Fancy seeing you here!”

Aziraphale turned, and might have groaned if he went in for such open displays of distaste. Mr. Evans was sitting on a bench ahead of them, twisted around in his seat to face them. He cocked a hand in a polite wave. There were a few younger people sitting next to him, also watching Mr. Fell with mild curiosity. “Ah. Mr. Evans. What a coincidence.” He glanced from Evans, to the other people and back to Evans. Next to him, Crowley stepped a hair closer, just close enough that their shoulders brushed when Crowley shifted his weight around, swaying as he watched Evans and his group. “I never really considered you may … be a corn maze sort of person.”

“Nor I you.” Evans arched a brow. “Originally, Dr. Johnston was going to accompany her students, but she’s a bit shaken up and has gone home to spend the evening with her family.” He went on, even as Aziraphale murmured ‘Understandable’, and gestured to the younger people next to him. “I’ve subbed in, as it were. They were planning a bit of a race, I suppose, and needed someone to even the teams out.” The students flanking him nodded. 

“How nice of you.” Aziraphale folded his hands behind his back, and glanced over toward the Them. “We’re engaging in a similar match-up with our godson and his friends.”

“Ah.” Evans looked a little surprised at that. “Godson, eh?” He glanced over to the Them. “I didn’t know you had family in the area.”

Aziraphale forced a smile, and shrugged. “Yes, well. In any case, I do hope you have an enjoyable evening.”

Evans chuckled. “You as well. Hey, maybe if you get lost in here long enough, you won’t be able to make it to the auction tomorrow, eh? Would be a turn of luck for me.”

Crowley frowned at that. “You know it’s just corn and he can walk out of it any old time, yes?”

“It was a joke, dear,” Aziraphale said with a sigh, maintaining that wan little smile in Evans’ direction. “Yes, it would be a turn of luck for you, Mr. Evans, but I daresay it’s very unlikely.”

“Of course, of course.” He waved a hand and turned around on his bench, facing forward toward the young lady that had begun to go over the rules of the maze and the general principle of the game. “So long as we all stay safe, eh?” he added, before he turned around fully. 

“You know,” Crowley muttered to Aziraphale, barely audible over the young lady with the bullhorn, “I don’t like him at all. He’s got a bad feeling to him.”

Aziraphale sat next to Newt, and Crowley next to him, but neither was paying attention. “You can’t be suggesting Mr. Evans in all of this, can you?”

“He was at the preview today.”

“So was  _ everyone else _ .” He frowned, glancing quickly over toward Mr. Evans and Dr. Johnston’s students before turning back to Crowley. “Listen, Crowley, I don’t exactly have a good deal of fondness for him, but I just can’t imagine he’d be involved in all of this.” His brow furrowed, and he looked hard at Crowley’s glasses, his eyes just behind them, and implored, “You don’t feel anything … is there? I’d have a hard time believing it, but if you say so, then I would believe you.”

Crowley took a deep breath, using the pause as an excuse to scent the air. “Dunno,” he concluded, finally. “Maybe. Someone’s not happy to be here, but again, people everywhere.” He glanced around. “And it’s hardly as if this is everyone’s dream Saturday night, eh?” He shrugged. “I can keep tabs on him. Maybe follow him a little later tonight, after all this, and see what he’s up to when he’s on his own.”

“Good idea.” Aziraphale reached across the bench, just quickly, and squeezed Crowley’s hand. “Later then.”

“Does anybody have any questions?” the young woman with the bullhorn asked. “Remember, if you have any problems in the maze, we have staff-members stationed throughout, and a watcher in the tower in the center, so just call out and someone will make their way to you.”

Adam had turned around, bright-eyed and ready to go. Next to him, Wensley and Pepper and Brian were laughing and joking, every bit as excited to get into the maze and get going. “You ready?”

Anathema grinned, eyes narrow. “It’s on, kid.”

“Alright, go!” Like a shot, the Them jumped up from their bench and darted into the corn, disappearing from view as soon as they rounded the first turn. Moments later, their voices faded away too, lost in the dark and the maze.

“No running in the maze!” the young woman yelled after them, without much success.

The group of adults and adult-shaped beings was slower to amble into the maze. Newt had been designated the map-holder without a single word being exchanged on the subject, and he was studying the sheet with concentration. “It’s blank, amor,” Anathema pointed out gently. 

“Well, yes. But I’m trying to see the crossword clues. I might know the answers to some of them even without finding the plaques with the answers on in the maze.” He fished around in his coat pocket for a flashlight, and upon finding it, clicked it on and shone it at the paper, ignoring the way the beam of light sputtered and flickered as he read. “Do you think that’s cheating?”

“Are they gonna know? What’s the first clue Pulsifer?” Crowley paused at the first fork in the path, before nodding and heading to the left, the other 3 trailing along behind.

“Says, ‘this country was the first to launch a satellite into space’.”

Aziraphale scoffed, strolling along next to Newt and only half paying attention to where he was going, the better to study the map paper. “That’s easy: it was Chile.”

“ _ What _ ?” Anathema boggled, stumbling as she kept pace with Crowley. “No it wasn’t, it was Russia, I remember from history -”

“Taught you a lot about South America, did they?” The angel had a look on his face that Anathema had learned usually meant ‘I’m right, and I know I’m right, and if you try to argue with me I will enjoy detailing all of the ways in which I am right’. “What did you learn about Chile, Anathema?”

“Isn’t that where Easter Island is?” Crowley asked, hanging a right at the next intersection. “It is, isn’t it? They launched that little thing up when they rolled the one head into place, you told me.” 

Aziraphale smiled serenely. “Just so.”

Anathema sighed, and stuffed her hands into the pockets of her sweater. “Of  _ course _ school left out the accomplishments of the South Americans. Why would I be surprised?”

“Only Chile doesn’t fit in the space,” Newt said, more hesitantly. “It’s ah, eleven letters.”

“ _ Eleven _ ?” Aziraphale scowled. “Well, then it can’t be Russia either.”

“So where else made it to space?” Anathema asked. “Go straight here.”

“How’d you know?” Crowley challenged, although he took her direction. 

“Only way we haven’t gone yet. Anywhere else? Because I certainly didn’t know about Chile.”

Aziraphale looked thoughtful. “I can’t … Crowley, dear, Egypt never made it, did they?”

“Came damn close, but no.” He made a thoughtful noise, humming as he walked, and turned, apparently at random, down a left-branching path. “What about that country to the East, not China, but what was it called?”

“I don’t think it exists anymore,” Aziraphale replied, sounding a little sad about it. “I do know where you’re talking about though, I spent a few years there before I sailed to Hawaii. But no, I don’t think they ever made it to space.”

“Shame - oh!” They rounded another blind turn, and stopped. They had stumbled into a little clearing, and there in the center was a zip-line. “What’s this then?”

Anathema had already approached it, and was testing the rope in her grip. “The woman did say there would be fun little stops throughout the maze.” She glanced back to Crowley and Aziraphale, amused. “Maybe if you hadn’t been talking -”

“Yeah, yeah.” Of the two tracks, one of them had a much longer rope with a little wooden disc at the bottom, clearly intended for children to sit and ride on. Crowley jumped onto it, narrowly avoiding tipping off the disc and falling into the dirt. The rope slid to the other side. “Bit fun, I guess.”

Anathema grabbed the shorter rope and backed up, getting a step or two of a running start before tucking her legs up and gliding down the track. Newt and Aziraphale watched solemnly, Newt with the map held reverently in front of himself. “It is kind of fun,” she concluded before sending the rope sliding back to the other two. “Have a turn, guys.”

“No, thank you,” Newt said politely, before tucking his face away behind the map.

Aziraphale responded similarly: “Perhaps another time, if we run back across it. I do think we ought to keep moving, and endeavor to find either a square or a crossword answer.”

“You’re no fun,” Crowley complained, ducking under the zipline on his way back over. “Right, which way did we come from?”

Newt looked more bewildered than usual. “I don’t … I thought you were paying attention.”

“Hm, no, afraid not.”

“Anathema?” Aziraphale looked at her expectantly, and she sighed like the weight of the world rested solely on her shoulders.

“I was. Come on, this way.”

They walked for a while longer, taking turns and running into a few dead-ends. They ran across a tic-tac-toe board made of carved firewood, and paused for a game (Aziraphale vs Newt - Newt let Aziraphale win out of a sense of reverence and slight terror) before wandering on. “Suppose,” Crowley said, pushing his glasses up and squinting down a path, only to shake his head and wave everyone on, “suppose we don’t find anything at all?”

“Seems unlikely. Odds are we’re going to come across  _ something _ .” Aziraphale paused to examine the color of the tape strung along the corn. “We’re in the red section, Newt - which one is that?”

“Mars.”

“That information would probably be way more helpful if we had any pieces of the map at all,” Anathema observed dryly.

“True. I could swear we’ve been this way before, too.” Newt stopped at the crossroads they’d come to, and paused to listen. “Hang on, I think I hear -”

“Hey, guys!” Adam and the Them appeared, breathless and elated, around a corner, their cheeks pink with exertion and cold. “How’s it going?”

Wensley held up their map quickly, and then snatched it away, like Newt might somehow read the answers in the darkness or steal some of the squares which were, he was distressed to see, meticulously taped into place. 

“It’s …” Anathema considered the question. “Well, we’re slow and steady.”

“Wins the race,” Aziraphale agreed.

Pepper grinned, a little predatory under her red knit cap. “How many squares did you get then?”

“A couple,” Anathema lied.

“Actually -” Newt yelped and jumped. Wensley, quiet as a mouse, had crept around behind him to better examine the map he was hiding behind his back, “- they don’t have any! And no clues!”

Adam’s face fell. “Seriously?”

“Er, we found a zip line,” Newt said, in an attempt to be helpful. “And played tic-tac-toe. But, ah, we haven’t found anything yet -”

Brian and Adam exchanged a look, which might have been recognized as disappointment in better lighting. “You’re … trying, right?” Adam asked, sounding very small. “Sorry, I thought -”

Crowley laughed, and patted the former Antichrist on the shoulder. “Oh, no, Adam, we are  _ definitely _ trying. Just very bad at mazes, apparently.” 

Adam watched Crowley, just for a second, and then nodded, apparently satisfied. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“You want a clue?” Brian offered. “We could give you a hint, since we’re in the lead.”

“Don’t give them any hints.” That was Pepper, arms crossed and expression imperious, rolling her eyes. “What if they end up winning?”

Wensley cleared his throat. “That doesn’t seem very likely, actually.”

“Alright, so here’s your hint.” Adam jerked a thumb in the direction of the path they had come from. “If you follow that, and then turn left at the fork, there’s a square  _ and _ a crossword answer down that way.”

“Six whole points,” said Pepper, sounding mildly disgusted by Adam’s generosity.

“And there’s some hay bales you can climb on, too!” added Brian. Newt shone the beam of the flashlight on the tall boy and, indeed, found he had hay sticking out of his hair, shirt, and jacket, as well as his shoes.

Aziraphale sighed. “How fun.” He would not, everyone knew, be climbing on any hay bales. “Thank you for the hint, Adam, that was very kind of you.”

“Yeah, no problem.” Adam frowned. “I could give you a few more, just to make things more exciting.”

“Oh, dear boy, I hardly think that will be necessary. I’m sure this clue is just the kick-start we need to really get moving on this challenge!”

Adam smiled a little at that. “I hope so. It’s not very fun if we beat you by like … a lot.”

“Says you,” muttered Pepper.

“We’ll find more squares, you can bet on it.” Anathema punched Newt in the shoulder, lightly, but the man still winced. “Oh, come on, that didn’t hurt.”

“What if we don’t find any more squares?”

Crowley sighed. “We will.” He started walking again, this time backwards, and waved a little to the kids. “Thanks for the hint, guys. Much obliged.”

“Good luck!” And then they were off again, half-jogging into the maze and once again out of sight. When they’d gone, Crowley turned around and started walking forwards again, albeit faster than he had been previously. “D’you see how many squares they had?”

Anathema nodded. “Yeah. I counted five.”

“They’re going to beat us if we don’t keep moving.”

Aziraphale and Newt exchanged a look. “Are we not letting them win, then?” Newt asked. “Only I thought that was what we were doing.”

“Perhaps not so obviously.” Had anyone bothered to notice, or been able to see in the dark, Aziraphale’s usual brown leather shoes became, for the time being, a pair of equally brown trainers. “Or at all.”

“But they have a big lead on us -”

“Which is exactly why,” Anathema said, turning over her shoulder and gesturing for the two trailing members of the group to pick up the pace, “we have to get moving.” There was silence for a few seconds. “Isn’t there some phrase you have for that, Aziraphale?”

“Do I?” He blinked. “I can’t readily remember.”

“It’s ‘get a wiggle on’,” said Crowley, and his eye roll was practically audible as he spoke.

“Oh, yes! Yes, ‘get a wiggle on’. Which is precisely what we should be doing.”

Newt looked worried as ahead of them, Crowley’s stride somehow got even longer and Anathema broke into a jog. “They said there’s no running in the maze.”

“Well, you know,” Aziraphale said genially, before he grabbed Newt under the arm and started tugging him along at a walk so brisk he had to start jogging himself, just to keep up. “You only get in trouble if you get caught.”

“Oh,” he said, and then they were all running.

Crowley’s night-vision capabilities were not nearly as useful as they had hoped, but one advantage he did have was being able to see through the darkness of the rows of tall corn, into other paths and clearings. After they found the first square, as well as the first crossword answer - “What is the moon’s shadow called? Of  _ course _ it’s the umbra. Why didn’t you ask me, Pulsifer?!” - Crowley peered through the stalks and declared, “We have to get over there.” He pointed at a wall of impenetrable corn. “The map have any hints, Pulsifer?”

Anathema was leaning over Newt’s shoulder, the two of them studying it together. “Doesn’t look like it,” she said. “Just looks like we should head back the way we came, but at the spot where we came from the left, we should turn right instead to go into the next section.”

“Well, there you have it, let’s move. I’m not losing a game to a group of teenagers.” They moved, Newt puffing and wheezing his way along with the rest of them until Aziraphale patted him on the back, ostensibly for encouragement, and Newt found himself suddenly able to breathe easy.

“Oh, that’s definitely cheating,” he said, suddenly able to keep up the pace without panting.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Newton. Do keep up.”

As it happened, Adam’s helpful little hint  _ did _ turn out to be a bit of a turn of luck for them, or maybe it was the collective desire to at least put up somewhat of a fight, because after that first square and answer, they found two more in rapid succession. And apparently, the squares and answers did not always go together, and they found a third answer somewhere between Mars and the asteroid belt. It was a relief, too, because with their map looking a little less barren, Anathema and Crowley seemed to feel comfortable slowing the pace and falling back into a walk, albeit a slightly more hurried one than they’d started out with. Newt took a breath, and continued watching the path ahead, flashlight beam shining onto the uneven ground of the cornfield. 

They took a few more turns and found another square before they ran across the piano. It was in a little shed, painted with neon paint that shone under the blacklight mounted on the ceiling. Newt, still of a mind to hurry on and find more squares, assumed they would be walking right past it, and as a result walked fully into Anathema, who had stopped at the door to the shed. The reason for this being, Newt assumed, that Crowley had gone in.

“I don’t see any squares in there,” Newt said, a little warily. The demon was standing over the piano, fingers tracing up and down the keys without fully pressing any of them or making a sound. 

“Nah, not one. Been ages since I played one of these, though.” Carefully, he prodded the middle C key, which Newt only recognized by virtue of having had 18 months of lessons when he was younger. It had been a futile attempt by his mother to distract his interest toward something less likely to blow up, and at the end of 18 months the piano instructor had regretfully told Mrs. Pulsifer that while young Newt was a polite and pleasant boy, he didn’t seem to have much talent toward the piano, and perhaps if she were going to spend money on lessons she would consider website design instead, as Newt would talk excitedly about that for most of his piano lessons. Mrs. Pulsifer had sighed, and thanked the woman, and that was the end of piano lessons, for Newt.

Crowley had started to play, something mellow and bluesy, and by the sound of it, had probably had a bit more than 18 months of lessons. Aziraphale was watching him, bemused but entertained. “I thought we were in a hurry,” Newt said.

“I’m surprised he can still remember how to play,” Aziraphale responded. “It has to have been nearly a century since he last touched a piano.”

Newt swallowed. “He’s very good.”

“Fairly, yes.” He barely winced when Crowley’s finger slipped and he missed a note, but then again it was one bad note in a collection of many good ones, and really wasn’t all that noticeable. “He’s no Amadeus, but then, how many of those could there be?”

“Probably just the one.” Newt studied the map again. “I think, when we get moving again, if we start -”

It was a little hard to hear, at first. A creaking, rustling sound that might have just been the cornstalks all around. Still, Anathema noticed it, and Newt and Aziraphale, and outside of the shed, they all looked around, curious. “Do you -” Aziraphale stepped into the shed, and tapped Crowley on the shoulder. “One minute, dear, if you would.”

“Huh?” Crowley turned around, and maybe it was just the piano going silent, but the rustling was louder now, followed by a creaking and groaning noise. “What’s that?”

“Maybe we should start heading -” Anathema started, but she didn’t finish. There was a scream, a crash, and then lots of shouting. “Shit.” She took off through the corn, in the direction of the yelling, paying no heed to the marked paths. The other three followed, weaving through cornstalks and intermittent cleared paths, the voices growing louder and more distinct, until they stumbled into a clearing with another one of the fun little diversions.

It had, at one point, been a slide. Now, though, it was a pile of wood and a heap of broken plastic. There were people gathered around too, yelling and pulling wood and bits of slide out of the way. “Give him some air, give him some air!” a woman was shouting, waving her arms to drive other people back.

“It’s not Adam or one of the Them, I hope,” Aziraphale said, worried, shoving his way forward between two worried-looking bystanders. “Oh, thank Go - Mr. Evans?”

In the middle of the pile of wrecked slide and various accoutrement, Mr. Evans was laying on his back, right arm clutched to his chest, groaning. There was a woman in a high-visibility vest, presumably a staff member, hovering over him, occasionally repeating her orders to step back and give him room. To the side, one of Dr. Johnston’s worried students was standing there, biting worriedly at her fingernails. 

Aziraphale forced his way through the crowd, and Crowley, Anathema and Newt took advantage of the void left in his wake to step toward the front of the crowd. The angel knelt in the rubble of the slide, and reached a hand out to Evans, before pausing and glancing back toward Crowley.

“He’s fine,” Crowley mouthed, shaking his head side-to-side for emphasis. “Not here.”

Aziraphale nodded, nearly imperceptible in the dark, although more and more flashlights were falling on the scene in the clearing. He turned his attention back to the man on the ground. “Mr. Evans, are you alright?”

“Do you know this man?” the staff member asked, although whether she was addressing Aziraphale or Mr. Evans was unclear.

“Yes,” they both responded anyway, Aziraphale worried and quiet, Evans strained and hoarse with pain. “Mr. Evans, are you alright?”

“Don’t think so,” Evans panted, his left hand grasping at the sleeve over his right elbow. “I might have broken my arm.”

“Oh, dear.” Aziraphale put a hand on his shoulder; one small miracle to ease the pain wouldn’t go amiss, even with all of these people around. Sure enough, Evans gulped in a breath, and seemed to relax, just a little. “What  _ happened _ ?”

It was Dr. Johnston’s student that answered this time. “The whole tower collapsed. Just … we had separated to try to find a clue, but I heard the creaking and when I got here it just fell down.”

Mr. Evans nodded. “Yes, I - I went to the top to see if I could get a view over the corn. Then the structure started to wobble, and it fell.”

The woman in the high-visibility vest was shaking her head, her radio in one hand. “I have an injury,” she said, although judging by the chattering voices on the radio they were already well-aware. “Arm injury.”

At the edge of the crowd, Crowley was looking around. “You see the Them?”

Anathema and Newt looked around as well. “I don’t,” Anathema said. “Should I maybe go looking for them?”

“How are you going to find them?” Newt asked. “I mean …”

“True. Crowley?” The demon shrugged. “I mean, I’m sure they’re fine. Probably just too far away.” As if on cue, four teenagers stumbled out of the corn, Adam at the lead, wide-eyed and panting. He and Brian immediately cast their flashlights over the mess, including Mr. Evans, now lying very still and flat on his back at the urgings of the woman in the vest and Aziraphale. 

“What happened?” Adam breathed, after he caught sight of the rest of the group and shuffled over, shoelaces trailing. “Isn’t he the guy from the pub?”

“Mr. Evans, yes.” Newt swallowed. “The slide collapsed, apparently.”

Brian looked confused. “What was he doing on the slide? It’s too short for an adult.”

“Trying to get a better view, I suppose.” Newt looked the teens over. “Are you all alright?” They didn’t appear any worse for the wear, dust and stray corn husks notwithstanding. “Nothing wrong, is there?”

“We’re fine.” Pepper and Wensley were looking to one another, thoroughly perplexed. “We just  _ went _ down that slide. Not ten minutes ago, didn’t we, Adam?”

“It was actually more like fifteen, but yes, we all went down except Brian.” Wensley said, nodding emphatically.

“Too tall,” Brian explained.

Anathema nodded. “And it didn’t seem like … wobbly or anything? You didn’t notice anything unusual?”

“Nothing.” Brian shook his head. “I even took videos on my phone for Snapchat, see?”

“Can you save those?” Anathema asked, watching the videos carefully. “I have a feeling the police will be on their way before too long.”

Adam breathed out, suddenly realizing the gravity of the situation. “He was a rare book buyer, wasn’t he?” He looked around the assembled crowd. “He  _ was _ . He was going to try to buy some books at the auction tomorrow, and he and Aziraphale were talking about a certain book, I don’t remember which, and …” He swallowed, and glanced from Crowley, to Anathema, to Newt, eyes wide. “This  _ can’t _ be related, can it?”

“I suppose it could be,” Anathema answered slowly. “But -”

“But it’s  _ messy _ ,” Crowley finished. From the far side of the clearing, several staff members arrived, carrying a back-board between them. “If it was supposed to be targeted, this was the worst way to do it.” He waved his hands toward the scene, and let them fall back to his sides. “No guaranteeing who would be on it when it went down, was there?”

“No,” Anathema agreed. “It might be an accident. It’s probably an accident.”

“Maybe,” Newt said, less certain. “It  _ is _ weird.”

Crowley lowered his voice, so that only Anathema and Newt could hear, and perhaps the Them, as the kids leaned in to hear better. “The whole clearing reeks of just … general bad stuff. Malice, anger, jealousy, you name it. Pain, too, but I have a good guess that’s coming from him, now. But close to the same as the library earlier today.”

Anathema looked surprised. “So you think it  _ was _ intentional?”

“Doesn’t look good.” He looked around, studying the assembled people. In the center of the clearing, among the mess, Mr. Evans was insisting he could walk if he could just support his own arm, and the back-board wouldn’t really be necessary. “But why like this? Most of these people are  _ kids _ , not rare book people or anyone I recognize from the preview this afternoon. Just Evans and the students, really. Maybe her.” Suddenly, he regretted not paying better attention to the faces in the crowd earlier in the day. “Or him …”

Anathema huffed. “But why  _ like this _ ?”

“Beats me.”

Newt turned toward the opposite end of the clearing as the sound of sirens grew louder by the second. Soon enough they were joined by blue lights visible as they flashed through the stalks, as well as the red of an ambulance. “Do you think the police are going to start getting suspicious? Of, uh …” He gestured to Crowley. “I mean, you’ve been at all three, and -”

“They already are.” Crowley scoffed. “Barnaby is not a fan of me.” He frowned a little. “I hope I don’t get arrested. Not really in the mood to get arrested, at the moment.”

“I hear it’s not so bad these days,” Anathema said, encouragingly.

Adam nodded. “We toured the cells at the police station last year on a school trip. They didn’t look so bad.”

“What kind of school trip -’

“Can I have your attention, please?” A staff member in a reflective vest was standing at the entrance to one of the off-shoot paths in the maze. He had a flashlight in hand and was waving it around. “Everybody, please. We’re going to be asking everybody to follow me out of the maze, please, in an orderly fashion. Do not touch anything, if you please.”

“Here we go. Angel!” Mr. Evans had been bundled off by a couple of staff-members, leaving Aziraphale standing worriedly in the middle of the slide wreckage, wringing his hands. He turned when Crowley called, looked surprised, like he’d forgotten everyone else was there, and hurried over to the group. “You alright?”

“Perfectly fine. Mr. Evans is hurt, though. Broken collarbone and a sprained wrist.” He sighed. “I did try to heal the sprain, so he shouldn’t be too troubled by that, but the collarbone -”

“Eh, it’ll heal.”

The angel turned to the kids, giving them all a once-over. “And you’re all alright? No harm done?”

Pepper shook her head. “We were in a totally different place. We came running when we heard everything, though.”

“We’d been down the slide not long before,” Wensley added. “Brian has videos.”

“And there was nothing strange?” Aziraphale looked from the Them, to Crowley, who shrugged.

“Not at all.” Adam was very quiet, with his hands in his pockets, eyes downcast, glaring at the path as he walked. “Gettin’ real tired of all of this messin’ about, you know. Would be easier if the person just turned themselves in.” At that declaration, all other conversation amongst the group died on the vine. The Them exchanged nervous looks amongst themselves, as did Anathema and Newt. “This kinda stuff’s not supposed to happen in Tadfield.”

The first person to respond was Aziraphale, and when he spoke it was very slow, and very careful. “Yes, well … it would be nice if it didn’t happen  _ anywhere _ , Adam, certainly, but unfortunately … some people make choices that are bad, sometimes. It is part of being human, the ability to make good choices as well as bad.”

“And sometimes bad things happen as a result,” Crowley added. “And then sometimes even what happens afterwards sucks. A lot. But if you get too much in the way of people being, well, people …”

“Like you said before,” said Aziraphale carefully, so carefully, “if you start making their decisions for them -”

Adam sniffled. “I know. I know. I can’t make everyone’s decisions for them.” Trailing a step or two behind him, the other three children, and the two adult humans, breathed a collective sigh of relief. “But sometimes …” He looked to the two non-humans, pleading. “Can’t one of  _ you _ do something?”

Aziraphale considered it. “I  _ could _ , I suppose. If I knew who it was.”

“You can’t just find out?”

“I’m an angel,” Aziraphale responded gently, putting one hand on Adam’s shoulder, “not God. I don’t know everything. Can’t do everything.”

“Can you keep anyone else from getting hurt? Please?” He looked between the angel and the demon, a little desperately. “ _ Please _ ?”

“I … we can try,” Aziraphale said at last, with a sigh. “I already did a blessing earlier today, but it was a general thing. I could keep a closer eye on the majority of the people in for the auction, I suppose.”

“There does have to be some balance,” Crowley said quietly. “We have to give the police time to work. But yes, we can keep an eye on things.  _ Really _ make sure there aren’t any more deaths.”

“Or serious injuries,” Adam added. 

Crowley snorted a little laugh. “A collarbone break is hardly a serious injury; those things’ll fix themselves if you put the two bits in the same room.”

“ _ Please _ .”

“Yes.” Crowley looked to Aziraphale, who shrugged and elaborated. “Yes. So long as everyone is in Tadfield for the auction, we can … keep things safer, and let the police work.”

Adam looked to Crowley. The demon sighed, his hands shoved as deep into his pockets as possible. “Yes, alright. But only because it’s you asking. We’re supposed to be hands-off, for the most part, if we don’t want to draw too much attention from … you know.”

“Understood.” The kid nodded, and took a deep breath. “But just here. ‘M tired of bad stuff happening, all in one week. Just this one time.”

“I get it,” Crowley sighed. “Don’t I get it.” Ahead, the exit of the maze loomed and beyond it, a mass of people, policemen and other patrons and medics. “And here’s the circus.” He looked to Aziraphale, a little apologetically. “If I get arrested, bail me out, would you?”

“Of course I will.” Aziraphale chuckled. “It’s usually the other way around though, isn’t it?”

“ _ Is _ it?” Pepper’s eyes glittered. “Mr. Crowley, you’ve bailed out -”

Crowley beamed. “Figuratively. Oh, and literally, one time. Although that was sort of more  _ breaking _ him out -”

And in that moment Adam, who had been very quiet and downcast and deeply thoughtful, brightened. “Wait,  _ what _ ?”

“Tell you about it later,” Crowley muttered, when a familiar face in the crowd of policemen caught sight of them and started over, notebook appearing out of a pocket and opening very deliberately. “Promise.” And then, louder, “Detective Inspector Barnaby! We meet again.”

“So we do.” The DI smiled, and even in that expression there was a suggestion that he would much rather  _ not _ be smiling, and would in fact rather be arresting someone, but at the moment there was not adequate evidence to make any sort of arrest, and so he was going to play friendly and amiable policeman instead, until such an opportunity presented itself. “So we do.” He gestured to Aziraphale and Crowley, and then waved his pencil toward the maze, indicating a place off to the side relatively free of other people, near the corn and an old tractor modified to look like a moon buggy. “Come with me, if you please. I’m afraid -” he did not sound afraid “- I have more questions for you both.”


	5. You Have the Right to Remain Indignant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Herein is an arrest, a mistake, and a silly game with the Them.

“I’m getting really  _ very _ tired of talking to DI Barnaby, nice man though he is.” They were back at Jasmine Cottage finally, and Aziraphale had finally spoken, slumped in a chair with a cup of hot tea in hand. “I get the feeling he suspects me. Do you think he suspects me?”

“You? No.” Anathema also settled in with her own cup of tea. “Crowley, maybe.”

Newt sipped nervously at his own drink. “More than maybe, honestly. Did you hear the questions he was asking?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale frowned. “Where is Crowley? I lost track of him when we got out of the car.”

Anathema pointed toward the ceiling. “Said he had to get something upstairs. Lucky thing that that Mr. Evans wasn’t seriously injured, wasn’t it?” She raised an eyebrow. “Did you have anything to do with that?”

“Aside from the blessing at the preview this afternoon? No.” He waved a hand. “I suppose I did heal the sprained wrist while no one was watching, but I assume you’re referring to the fact that he didn’t die when the structure collapsed.”

“Precisely.”

“At least we know it’s  _ definitely _ book collectors the murderer is targeting,” Newt said, breaking the pensive silence that followed. “Which I guess infers that the murderer is a book collector themself, which significantly narrows the pool of suspects.”

Anathema sat back, looking thoughtfully into the depths of her mug. “I know you were friendly with Mr. Evans and Dr. Johnston, but do you know anyone else here this weekend?”

Aziraphale considered that, his fingers drumming idly on the mug in his hands as he thought. “I … not really, no. No, I suppose I  _ have _ met a good deal of them peripherally, at sales and such, but I wouldn’t say I really know them. I don’t remember half of their names, honestly.” Upstairs, there was a thud, and the three assembled in the living room looked curiously up toward the ceiling. “What  _ is _ he doing up there?”

“I have a feeling we’ll find out,” Anathema replied. She sipped her tea. “Soon enough.”

“Hm. I rather agree.” He glanced at his watch, and his blue eyes widened a little. “Oh, look at the time, it’s already half eleven. You two must be exhausted. If he’s keeping you up I could -”

“I don’t think I could sleep if I wanted to.” Anathema and Newt exchanged anxious looks, and she sighed. “Between the fire and tonight I’m a little … high strung. And no, thank you, I’m not looking for any miraculous sleep assistance.” She raised her mug. “Chamomile tea is as strong as I want.”

“Bit presumptuous of you,” said Aziraphale with a smile. She gave him a level, knowing look, and he chuckled a little. “Fair enough, though. Ah, here comes Crowley.” The three of them watched the stairs, expectantly, and when Crowley finally rounded the corner of the stairwell and found himself fixed with three politely attentive gazes, he stopped.

“What?” he asked, hands stuffed into the pockets of his heated coat.

“Tea?” Newt offered. 

Aziraphale bit back an exasperated sigh and asked instead, “Going out?”

“Well, yeah.” He shrugged vaguely in the direction of the front door. “Told the kids I’d keep an eye on people, didn’t I? Might head out, have a look around for any kind of, you know … evil.”

“That’s actually a good idea,” Anathema said, eyebrow raised. “Maybe around the inn where most of the book dealers are staying?”

Crowley wagged a finger at her. “Got it in one, Book-girl. Anyway, I’ll be there all night, I’d imagine, unless the murderer jumps out sooner than dawn.”

“Tea for the road? I think we have a thermos,” Newt offered. Crowley winced.

“Ah, no. I get a little jumpy around thermoses. I’ll be alright - there’s pub right there, isn’t there?”

Aziraphale frowned. “Staring out of the front window the pub isn’t exactly -”

“I’m just saying, in case I need to warm up. Beats setting a fire in a trashcan, hm? I’m not above it,” he added, a hint of warning in his tone. Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Right. Anyway, if anyone needs me, that’s where I’ll be, have a mobile, you know, we’re all adults. In a manner of speaking.”

“Shall I go with you?” Aziraphale asked, sitting up a little straighter. “That way we’d be able to keep watch from both sides of the inn -”

“What, in case someone jumps out of the window? Maybe if the mafia were involved, angel, but somehow I think I’ll be alright watching the front door on this one.” He waved a hand to the humans. “Keep an eye on them; don’t want a repeat of last night, do we?”

“No,” Anathema and Newt responded in unison, before exchanging a bashful look. “Definitely not,” Newt elaborated. “I was thinking I’d stay up awhile anyway, keep an eye on things from the second floor window. I’ve been working on the next chapter of the D&D campaign, so I’ll have something to do.”

Anathema sat up and set her tea aside. “And I can -”

“Sleep?” Aziraphale suggested. She glared at him, and he softened. “Really, dear, do get some rest. Newton and I will have it well in hand.”

“Until he falls asleep!”

“I’m sure I’m perfectly capable of keeping an eye on the property myself.” He allowed himself a smug little smile. “Several eyes, if need be.”

Newt blanched. “I forget about that usually, you know.”

Anathema, on the other hand, snorted. “It’s a good point. Perks of being friends with a couple of eldritch horrors, I guess.”

“Angels aren’t  _ eldritch _ , we’re -”

Crowley sighed. “Yes, ethereal, we know. Either way, got eyeballs for days, is the point. So you can see all the  _ sins _ .” He ignored Aziraphale’s resultant glare. “Right, I’m out, see you lot in the morning.” He spun on his heel and strode out the door, the latch clicking quietly shut behind him. In the living room, the remaining three watched the door for a moment.

It was a comfortable silence, really, at least for Anathema and Aziraphale. Newt, however, cleared his throat and stood up hastily, his mostly-full mug of tea in hand. “I’ll be upstairs.” He bent quickly to kiss Anathema on the forehead, while Aziraphale looked away and pretended not to notice. “I’ve got this,” he murmured to her.

“I believe you,” she responded quietly, resting her hand on the back of his neck and pulling him down for a proper kiss. “I’ll try to get some sleep, then?” He nodded, their foreheads bumping together gently as he did so, and then stood up, blushing furiously as she smiled up at him. “I’ll be up in a little while.”

“Great. Sounds good. I’ll, er … I’ll just be in my office if you need me, uh, you know, um. Er.” And then, very quietly and quickly - Anathema wouldn’t have noticed if she didn’t know him so well - he muttered, “Love you lots,” prior to fleeing upstairs.

Another moment of quiet, which Anathema broke with a sigh. “He’s very sweet,” she said. She sipped her tea and then said, “Sorry for calling you eldritch.”

Aziraphale shrugged. “Quite alright, dear. It’s not the first time, it won’t be the last, I’m sure.”

“Do you have  _ any _ idea who it could be?”

“No.” He shook his head and then rested his chin in his hand, staring off into some middle distance. “I can’t imagine. And -” he glanced around as if he was waiting for someone to strike him down or jump out with a tape recorder, before dropping his voice low, “- really, my dear, it’s only books.” He winced. “I know, I know, coming from me that sounds ridiculous, but at the end of the day they’re  _ things _ . Certainly not worth the same as a human life.”

“Are you sure?” She raised a hand to her chest, and took a deep breath. “Because you might have just ended  _ my _ human life, Aziraphale. I can’t believe -”

He waved a hand. “Don’t … do that. But it’s true! This is, well, this is  _ me _ saying it.”

Anathema crossed her legs. “I mean, I’m glad to hear it. It’d be a little worrying if an angel of the Lord was prioritizing books over human lives.” She shrugged at the dirty look he gave her. “Just saying.”

“There seems to be an awful lot of ‘just saying’ going around tonight,” he remarked mildly, before draining his teacup. “Very well. All fair, I suppose.”

“It’s all out of love, Aziraphale, you know.”

“I do know.” He smiled at her. “Of course, my dear. More tea?”

It was a tempting offer, Anathema thought as she looked into her own nearly-gone mug of tea. Aziraphale did make  _ very _ good tea. But, she thought, she was also very tired, and with Aziraphale and Newt watching over her, and Crowley out prowling, she thought maybe she felt just comfortable and safe enough to get some sleep. “Better not,” she said, followed by a defeated little sigh. “Sorry, I’m -”

“Say no more,” he said, raising a hand. “Rest well, my dear. I’ll be just here.” He moved across the room, settling into one of the old wicker chairs positioned by the windows overlooking the garden.

She finished her tea in one swallow and took the mug to the kitchen, rinsing it out and leaving it on the draining board to dry. Outside, the charred remains of her garden (which, Crowley had assured her again, when they returned from the maze, would be  _ much better _ after he’d had a crack at it) glowed silver in the late autumn moonlight. She watched until she was satisfied she hadn’t seen any movement, and then turned for the stairs, and her bed.

\--

The inn sat on the opposite side of the square from the pub. In the middle of the square there was a little park; it was no Saint James’, but it didn’t need to be tonight. Crowley walked a lap of the perimeter once, surveying the surroundings, and, once satisfied, sat on a bench facing the inn to wait.

What for, he wasn’t sure. He just knew he’d know when he saw it. He scented the air a few times, but only got a cold tongue for his trouble. Hunched in his coat, he wondered if maybe he should have taken up Newt on that tea offer, although Newt’s tea was notoriously awful. He concluded that it would have been a toss up: his tongue would warm up again, albeit slowly, but there was no telling how long the taste of Pulsifer’s trademark brew would stick with him.

For the longest time, he’d thought it was the demon thing: food didn’t taste good ordinarily anyway, always with an unpleasant overtone of charcoal and dirt, and so he’d assumed that Newt’s tea must just be so bland that the demon taste thing overrode whatever weak flavor the man had managed to impart to the water. It wasn’t until later, during a conversation with Aziraphale, that Crowley learned it  _ wasn’t _ just a demon thing at all, and that the angel had been miracleing Newt’s horrendous brew into a respectable Earl Gray for years. “So I’m not missing anything then,” he’d said, relieved, while Aziraphale had grimaced and confirmed, “Definitely not.”

Crowley was startled out of his reverie about Pulsifer’s atrocious tea by a sudden  _ taktaktaktaktaktaktaktaktak _ noise, and all at once he was looking around, this way and that in the dark, to every side of the square. The noise was growing louder - it was a weird noise, sort of familiar but not, almost like … like someone shuffling a deck of cards, or -

Four bikes, two of which had playing cards stuck into the spokes, rounded the corner of the square. Crowley sighed and stood up, raising a hand at the teens. Adam, in the lead as always, caught sight of him and slowed, the clacking of the playing cards affixed to his and Pepper’s bikes slowing to a stop as they drew even with the demon. “What,” Crowley said flatly, giving them all a stern look over his glasses, “are you four doing out here?”

“We -” Adam stopped, and the four of Them exchanged looks. They were, Crowley knew, trying to think up a good lie to cover, without discussing it first. It wouldn’t go well, but he figured he’d hear the attempt out.

“None of your business,” Pepper said first, shortly followed by Wensleydale’s timid, “Patrolling.”

“Patrolling.” Crowley frowned at Pepper. “For  _ what _ , if you don’t mind me asking?”

Adam looked fixedly to the front wheel of his bike. “Er. Not really  _ patrolling _ , so much, more, um, looking for anything unusual.”

“People in masks, carrying knives, you know,” Brian elaborated, business-like, until Pepper punched him in the arm. “Ow!”

“Mhm. And when you found this suspicious murderer, what were you planning on doing?”

“Oh! Citizen’s arrest,” Adam said, matter-of-fact. “Anyone can do it. Wensley’s got his mobile, so we were going to arrest the perpetrator and call DI Barnaby and tell him we had the person in hand.”

“Ah,” said Crowley, as if understanding clearly what they were planning. “I see. Well, in that case -” he paused, and Pepper and Adam visibly brightened, “- go home. Come on, this isn’t kid stuff.”

Adam bristled. “First of all,” he said, drawing himself up to his full height, “we’re not kids. We’re teenagers. And second of all, I figure we can stop Armageddon, catching a murderer is no big deal.” He looked at Crowley, firm and as imperious as he could be, considering he was still a couple inches shorter, a great deal younger, and had spent half an hour that morning crying on Crowley’s shoulder. 

Crowley opened his mouth, closed it, and then slumped. “Okay, well, you might have a point on that second one, but you still ought to go home.” He pointed to the inn. “Whoever it is is in there, and I’m watching the door. No one gets in or out without me knowing.”

“Did you notice anything?” Wensley asked eagerly, glancing around the square. “Any suspicious characters afoot?”

The demon raised an eyebrow. “Aside from the obvious? No. Not even a trace of malice in the air.” A car drifted by the front of the square, and the five of them watched it with mild interest. It pulled up outside of the inn and stopped. The driver - Dr. Anand, Crowley realized when he saw her braid - stepped out and moved around to the passenger side. Cautiously, she assisted the passenger out. It was Evans, one arm in a sling, moving gingerly and slowly. “Back from A&E, I suppose.” Crowley sighed, watching as they made their way into the inn. “Right, there you go, kids, nothing suspicious. I’ve got it,” he added, when they looked dubious. “You think I’ve never done a stake-out before?”

“Never done one in Tadfield before, I’ll bet,” Pepper returned. Crowley raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t.”

“I spent an entire night here driving around, looking for the Antichrist.”

“Oh, well, that’s different, isn’t it?” Brian scoffed. “That was supernatural.”

“Uh-huh.” Crowley blinked. “So this is a cakewalk.”

“Actually, no.” Wensley paused at the onset of his dissertation to push his glasses up. “Because when you think about it, you’re a supernatural being, so looking for the supernatural is not unusual for you. But you said this is definitely humans, which is different. It’s like us looking for ghosts, right? They’re not actually hard for  _ you _ to find, because you exist on the same plane, but for us it’s harder, because we’re bound to the physical plane.”

There was, after that, a prolonged pause. Crowley actually blinked. The rest of the Them stared at Wensley, wide-eyed. After a bit of stammering from the demon, Adam nodded sagely, as if this was the most logical thing anyone had ever said. “Good point, Wensley.”

“I’ve been on Earth for 6000 years,” Crowley reminded the teens, although it sounded weak even to him. “Been around humans a bit.”

Pepper looked unimpressed, although when she did say something, it was surprisingly diplomatic. “Maybe,” she allowed, “but this is  _ our _ town. We know it like … like the entire  _ Book of Fantastic Pranks _ .”

Brian nodded in support. “Have everything memorized, just as well as every bit.”

“Right.” Pepper tossed her ponytail back over her shoulder with a flip of her head. “So in any case, you‘d probably be better off with us.” And then she stared him down.

He would win, of course. He might be retired, but he was a demon, and a staring contest with a teenager was hardly something he was likely to lose at. But still, she was determined, and out of the corner of his eye, a twitch of movement came into focus. A thermos. There was, lingering around the cap, a hint of cocoa.

“Fine.” He flopped back down onto the bench, legs outstretched, and Adam beamed, shoving the thermos to Crowley, the better to prop his bike up against the wall a few feet away. “Suppose I’m just sitting here anyway. You lot can hardly get in trouble doing  _ that _ .”

“We already snuck out.” Wensley fastidiously placed the bike lock on his bike and turned the dials a few times for safety. “Not sure how much more trouble we can get into.”

Crowley poured a good helping of cocoa - real milk, this, none of that powdery water stuff - into the cup and handed the container back to Adam, who had settled in happily next to him. “You’re all going home by two,” he grumbled. “I’ll take you myself if I have to.”

“Deal,” Adam replied, clicking his thermos against Crowley’s cup. “I’ve gotta go to church in the morning anyway. Don’t want to fall asleep in the middle of it again. I thought Pastor Angie was gonna shout at me straight from the pulpit last time.”

“Been there,” Crowley commiserated. The Them giggled. For a few minutes, the five of them sat in silence, carefully watching the front door of the inn. Then, because they were teenagers, and nothing particularly exciting happened immediately, they started to get bored.

Brian, seated on the wall, was the first to speak. “So think about this: you get two million pounds, but every time you sneeze, you have to sing an aria. Do you take it?”

“What?” Pepper twisted around, as did Crowley and Adam. Wensley, on the other hand, looked thoughtful.

“Would you take the money if you had to sing an aria every time you sneezed, for the rest of your entire life?” Brian repeated. “Since we’re just sitting here.”

“No way,” Pepper said.

Wensley cocked his head. “You know … actually, I might? Two million pounds is a lot of money.”

“Sounds weird; I wouldn’t take it.” Adam shook his head. “Nah.” Silence settled over the group, and Crowley realized they were all watching him expectantly.

“Seriously?” He snorted. “The rest of  _ my _ life? Two million pounds? No thanks.”

Brian considered that. “Good point. I’ll have to think of something more general. What about -”

“Hey, no, you had your turn, let me try.” Pepper bounced up and down in her spot on the bench for a few seconds as she thought. “Alright, you get two million pounds -”

“A lot of money,” Wensley said solemnly.

“A lot of money,” Pepper agreed. “So you get two million pounds, but to get it you have to … fight off fifteen angry goats with only an umbrella.”

“I’ll fight the goats,” Brian said eagerly. 

“Mm, I dunno.” Adam frowned. “What’d the goats ever do to me?”

Wensley shrugged. “They’re angry at you. I think I would do it.”

Adam pondered it. “I wouldn’t.”

Crowley sipped the cocoa and said, slowly, “I probably would. Never did like goats.”

“Okay.” Apparently, it was Wensley’s turn now. “You get two million pounds, but the only candy you can eat for the next twenty years is strawberry laces.”

Brian gagged. “Urk,  _ no way _ .”

“You could just not eat candy for the next twenty years,” suggested Pepper, to Brian’s apparent horror. “Just a thought.”

“I’m with you,” Crowley agreed with her. “Not much of one for candy, anyway, me.”

“I’d take the money.” Adam shrugged. “I like strawberry laces.” He elbowed the demon. “You do one.”

Crowley bounced his foot thoughtfully, staring with only semi-awareness at the door of the inn.  _ Human children _ , he thought, taking a sip of cocoa to buy some time.  _ What don’t human children like? _

“Alright.” He brightened. “Two million pounds, but for the rest of your life you have twice-yearly surprise maths exams. You can’t predict when they’re coming, and they’re always on something different. And if you fail, you, er ... ”  _ Human children _ , he reminded himself.  _ Pit-appropriate consequences are right out _ . “You feel like you have wet socks until the next exam, whether you’re wearing socks or not.”

Brian cried out, appalled. “No way! That’s  _ terrible _ !”

“I’d do it,” Wensley said eagerly. “Two million pounds? Easy money.”

Pepper and Adam considered it with more deliberation. Ultimately, Pepper decided it wasn’t worth it, and Adam decided it was. 

And so it went: they took it in turns to move through increasingly absurd scenarios, learning along the way who would, for two million pounds: watch only  _ Die Hard _ at Christmas for the rest of their life (everyone), lick each note when they spent something from the total (Brian, Crowley, and Adam), justify every pound they spent from the total to RP Tyler (Wensley), only wear hot pink pants for ten years (Crowley), screech uncontrollably for one second every time they saw a penguin (no one), or burp every time they lied (Brian and Wensley, each for vastly different reasons). The game stretched on well into the night, which was well enough, considering there was a fat lot of nothing going on at the inn. All the lights had even gone dark, except for the ones at the front desk, and halfway through trying to concoct some kind of scenario that involved having to do the cheese-roll annually for the next 15 years while wearing something ridiculous that would be  _ worth _ two million pounds, Adam yawned widely. Smirking, Crowley checked his watch. 

“About that time?” 

“M’fine,” Adam muttered defensively. “Just yawning.”

“There’s nothing going on,” Wensley said though, likewise stifling a yawn. “Maybe we ought to get home.”

Pepper, who had nodded off about twenty minutes ago on Wensley’s shoulder, murmured something as well, although it was unintelligible. Wensley nudged her awake, gently, and earned only a sullen glower for his trouble. “I was awake.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” Brian slid off the wall and wandered over towards his bike. “Do what you guys want, but I’m beat. I’m going home.”

Adam looked worried. “Not by yourself. There’s a murderer.”

“‘M not a rare book person, I think I’ll be alright.” Brian mounted his bike and waved. “I want my bed.”

“I’ll go with you.” Carefully, Wensley untangled himself from Pepper and rose, likewise picking up his bike and undoing the lock. “I have to play piano at Sunday school tomorrow, so I’d probably be best to get some rest.”

Pepper rolled her eyes. “Goody two-shoes. You know you’re just helping indoctrinate the youth with patriarchal pseudo-factual constructs.” She glanced to Crowley. “I mean, they still do teach that God is male there.”

“God’s genderless,” he said.

“No, God’s a woman.”

Crowley sighed. Again, he might have argued, if it wasn’t one-thirty in the morning, freezing cold, and his debate partner wouldn’t have been a stubborn fourteen-year-old, but under such conditions even the most dedicated of demons would forgo most arguments, especially ones in which said stubborn fourteen-year-old could be, technically, depending on the date, time, plane of existence, and leg of the Trousers of Time, correct. “Whatever you like.”

“I just like playing piano,” Wensley explained with a shrug. “Adam, Pep, are you sure you’re not coming?”

“I’ll stay a bit longer yet.” Adam had slouched further and further down on the bench throughout the evening, and now mostly resembled a boneless simalcrum of a teenage boy, draped across the bench seat. 

“I …” Pepper looked from Brian and Wensley, to Adam, and back to the others. “I, er …” Unbidden, she yawned. Her shoulders slumped. “I’d better go home,” she admitted. “Sorry, Adam.”

“S’alright. I’m gonna stay a bit longer.”

Crowley snorted. “You sure about that? Get your bike, go on. Get out of here.”

“But nothing’s happened,” he whined. Crowley shrugged, and got up to pointedly wheel Adam’s bike over to the bench.

“It’s how it usually goes. Tough lesson to learn, but learn it now. Here.”

“ _ Crowley _ .”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “ _ Adam _ ,” he mimicked, with grin that matched the boy’s own. “Get on and get lost. If there’s murderers around I’ll tell you about it later.” He gestured to the inn. “Everyone’s asleep,  _ like you ought to be _ , so I’d imagine nothing’s going to happen again tonight -”

With a tremendous sense of dramatic timing, a police car drove by, lights flashing but no sirens, and turned down the blind alley that ran behind the inn.

Adam raised an eyebrow and looked smug. He sighed, world-weary, and pushed himself up. “I’ll take my bike, s’pose.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t do that?”

“No. But look, someone’s gettin’ arrested.” Another car turned down the little lane behind the inn. “Bet you anything.” He took the bike from Crowley, and started half-jogging over toward the commotion. “Come on!”

They didn’t run: that would be too suspicious. Or, at least, they didn’t run at first. They  _ did _ run, however, when they rounded the corner and saw, just in front of the bonnet of one of the black, unmarked cars, DI Barnaby talking to a  _ very _ familiar figure dressed all in shades of tan.

And handcuffs. Also handcuffs.

“Are they arresting Mr. Aziraphale?” Wensleydale asked, before the first strangled little noise escaped Crowley. “It looks like it.”

Pepper gasped. “I think they’re arresting Aziraphale.”

Crowley made another noise, and Adam looked to him, concerned and wide-eyed, until he saw that Crowley was trying  _ very _ hard indeed not to laugh. “They’re arresting Aziraphale,” Crowley giggled. “Hang on, I’ve gotta … hang on.” He took a deep breath, less so out of the need for oxygen and more in an attempt to get himself to stop laughing, before he did start jogging toward the police. “Wait! Azir - Ezra! Ah, shit.” He stopped, bent double with his hands on his knees, because he was laughing too hard to continue. They were close enough now that even in the dark, Adam could tell that DI Barnaby was not pleased with this development.

“Mr. Crowley,” he said, rather coldly. “What an unexpected surprise. Out for a late walk?”

Crowley gestured weakly to the Them. “Found some hooligans out, was walking them home.”

Aziraphale looked equally unamused, and his expression was turning more cross with each second Crowley kept laughing. “I’m being arrested, Crowley,” he said stiffly. “For murder.”

“Fuck!” Crowley sat down, really laughing now, the kind that makes your sides ache and tears run from your eyes*. “Oh sweet, merciful baby Jesus, you’re being  _ arrested _ . Hang on.” He fumbled in his pockets for his phone. “Hang on, I need a picture for posterity.”

[*  _ Provided you were capable of this which, considering Crowley was a demon, he wasn’t. _ ]

“This is hardly a laughing matter,” DI Barnaby said severely. “Your husband -” he blinked, as Crowley’s camera flashed. “ _ Excuse me _ , I’m trying to explain to you that your husband is being detained and taken for questioning in regards to the local string of homicides and attempts thereof.” The last sentence wasn’t quite shouted, not quite, but it was a close thing. “This is  _ not funny _ .”

“Oh, it is.” Crowley giggled a few more times, and then unfolded himself into an upright position. “You have to know him.” He approached the detective and Aziraphale, and clasped his hands in front of his heart. “I know you’re innocent, angel, I’ll break you out of Alcatraz if I have to, I’ll -”

Aziraphale scowled. “You’re not helping.”

“How’d you get arrested anyway?” Crowley looked to the handcuffs, and once again dissolved into giggles. “Sorry, hang on, I can’t do this.” He snapped his fingers and like a movie on pause, everyone around them stopped moving right in place. Well, everyone except for Adam and his friends, although Crowley rather suspected Adam had something to do with that, and he didn’t mind.

“Crowley,” Adam said quietly, drawing up behind the demon, a note of warning in his voice. “You know how -”

“Just for a minute, Adam, just so Detective Human here doesn’t get more aggravated than he already is.” Crowley was stalking around Aziraphale, still giggling, apparently trying to commit every detail of the frozen moment to memory. “Oh,  _ angel _ .”

Aziraphale sniffed distastefully. “Have you had your fun?”

“Well enough, I guess.” He gestured to the angel’s hands, cuffed behind his back. “So how’d you end up in this mess? I thought you were staying back at the cottage with Anathema and Newt.”

“Well, yes.” Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably. “I did, for a while. But then … well, they were both asleep, and they clearly were never meant to be the targets anyway, so I just did a small blessing and thought I’d come out and have a look around myself.”

Crowley nodded, mirrored in the background by the teens. “Okay. Explains why you’re out here, then.”

“You always were better at the sneaking around parts,” Aziraphale said miserably. “Part of your demonic nature, I’d imagine. No offense.”

“None taken. So you were trying to lurk, not succeeding, got it. And?”

The angel groaned. “And Evans, that wretched man, saw me watching the back door of the inn and I suppose assumed I was … was, ah … Oh, what’s the phrase?”

“What phrase?” Pepper asked.

“Casing the joint?” Crowley guessed.

“That was it! Yes, ‘casing the joint’.” He pondered that over for a second. “Very strange phrase, isn’t it?”

In the background, Brian leaned over to Adam and whispered, “How did he guess that?”

“Prolly comes from knowin’ one another for 6000 years,” Adam whispered back, wisely. And correctly.

“Anyway,” Aziraphale went on, back to sounding downtrodden and depressed, “I suppose he called the police and reported suspicious activity. And once the police arrived, I didn’t have a good reason to be here, and so … Here we are.”

“You couldn’t think of a lie?”

Aziraphale drew himself up. “I do not lie.”

Crowley didn’t lose a second before he responded with, “That’s a tremendous lie, but alright. Either way, you couldn’t have just ... oh, I dunno, made something up?”

“I panicked a bit.”

“What’d you tell them then?” Crowley waved his hands around, indicating the frozen policemen. “You must have told them something.”

Aziraphale blushed. “Well, I uh. I was rather honest I’m afraid. I told them I was checking on the inn where the out-of-towners were staying, just to check in.”

Crowley, very slowly, lowered his sunglasses. It made the effect all the more dramatic when he, also very slowly, blinked once. “ _ Just to check in _ ,” he repeated, tone flat. “And it never once occurred to you that you sound like some kind of serial killer?”

“I thought I sounded very nice!”

Wensley was nodding. “I think it sounds very nice,” he agreed.

“Thank you, Wensleydale. Unfortunately, it seems DI Barnaby didn’t agree.” He huffed. “And he told me they wouldn’t be formally questioning me until the morning! The auction starts at eight - how am I supposed to get there if I’m being questioned by police!”

Crowley shook his head. “They won’t be able to hold you long; they don’t have any evidence besides the circumstantial, and even that won’t pan out in court. I could just wait and take you to the auction after they’re done  _ investigating you for murder _ .” This prompted another bout of giggles. “I’m definitely taking more pictures when they put you in the car. Maybe I’ll actually use those fridge magnets Madame Tracy sent us, hang the photos up for the memories.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort. And  _ please _ , Crowley, this is serious! I might miss some of the most important lots if I don’t arrive in time for the beginning of the auction, and after tonight,” he added, voice dropping low, almost to a growl, “I’ll never forgive myself if Evans gets that Howells.”

“Well, we can’t have that.” Crowley glanced back over his shoulder to the teens. “Okay, I’m going to unfreeze everyone in a few seconds, so act -”

“Go for me.”

“What?” Crowley turned back to Aziraphale. “Come again?”

Aziraphale jerked his head in the general direction of the manor. “Go to the auction for me tomorrow, and bid in my place. You love auctions, you’ll be wonderful, I’ll -”

“I can’t do that, Aziraphale,” Crowley stammered. “I love auctions, yeah, but only when I know what the Hea - Hel .... the fuck I’m bidding on."

“I have a list in my pocket. The right one. It has all the must-haves.” He turned, the better to allow Crowley to pull a neatly-folded piece of paper out and open it, studying it. As always, it was written in Aziraphale’s neat handwriting and, Crowley noted, larger-than-usual text. He squinted at it, suspicious. “Did you want me to read this?”

“Just in case you wanted proof I really had narrowed it down to ten,” Aziraphale explained with an innocent little smile. Crowley flipped to the back and studied that, as if something written in invisible ink might become apparent there, too. “Truly, Crowley, I  _ did  _ narrow it down to ten that I must have. There’s a few others, but I’ll wait those out, they’ll come back around again. They always do.” He remembered the kids were there and not frozen, and his mouth clicked shut. 

Crowley nodded. “Understood. Ah. Okay. But … but the murderer is going to be there as well, won’t they?”

“All the better for you to suss out, dear. Crowley,  _ please _ go to the auction. I’m asking you very nicely.” Crowley gave him a half-hearted glower, and Aziraphale fluttered his eyelashes, completely unnecessarily. “ _ Please _ ?”

“Fine.” Crowley threw up his hands, nearly dropped the list, and hastily tucked it into his pocket. “Fine. Fine, I’ll go to the auction. Buy you some books, maybe catch a homicidal maniac while I’m at it.”

“Can I come?” Adam asked eagerly, to the voiced accord of the rest of the kids.

Crowley spun for a second and the four teens wilted under the combined glares of two supernatural entities. “ _ Absolutely not _ ,” they said in unison. Aziraphale shook his head emphatically. “It’s far too dangerous.”

“I can handle it,” Crowley added. He hiccuped, and a look of mild pain flickered across his face. “Shit, alright, I have to unfreeze everyone. Act natural, alright? And you smile for the photos, you bastard. I want a copy of your mugshot.”

Before Barnaby and the other policemen surged back into motion, before Crowley snapped his fingers, Aziraphale snapped, “I will do nothing of the sort.”

Life flowed back into the side-street, and the silence of stopped time was washed away by the hustle and bustle of Aziraphale’s arrest. Now back in the present and slightly less amused, Crowley noted that Evans was standing over by the back door of the inn, his arm in a sling, talking to that DS … Winter, was it? Something like that.

“So when can I collect him?” Crowley asked, trying to sound bored with the whole production.

Barnaby blinked. “Ah.” For a scant few seconds he looked thoroughly unsettled, perhaps even a little nauseous, and then it passed, and his face settled back into his usual collected expression. “We will question him in the morning. Pending the results of that -”

Crowley waved a hand. “Yes, yes, understood. But assuming that you’ve all done your jobs properly and aren’t setting him up, how long will you hold him for tomorrow?”

“Shouldn’t be much past noon,” Barnaby replied icily. “Assuming there are no further inquiries to make.”

“There won’t be. So I’ll pick you up for lunch tomorrow, angel. I assume -” this to Barnaby, “- there’s a phone at the police station? He’s one of the twelve people remaining in the UK without a mobile. Really, he should be studied as a relic of an ancient civilization.”

“ _ Crowley _ !”

Barnaby, apparently giving up on interceding in the banter between the pair of them, sighed heavily and said, “Yes, there is a telephone at the police station that Mr. Fell will be free to use to call you when we have completed the necessities.”

“Great.” To Aziraphale’s considerable consternation, Crowley again snapped a photo of the arrest. “See you tomorrow afternoon, angel. I’ll take care of that stuff for you.

“Stop taking pictures,” Aziraphale grumbled. 

Crowley did not. “I’m thinking Christmas card.” He looked over his shoulder to the Them, while Barnaby rolled his eyes and started ushering Aziraphale into the back of the car. “Christmas card? Maybe a little update letter like people used to do years ago. ‘Blessed and joyous tidings, this year one of us got arrested and you’ll never guess which one.’ Oh, hang on, I need the bit with the car.” More pictures.

Prior to the door closing, Aziraphale told Crowley, “You’re insufferable sometimes, dear.”

“It’s why you love me!” Crowley called, loud enough to be heard through the shatterproof glass. “See you tomorrow!” Aziraphale rolled his eyes, and Crowley waved. Barnaby, looking overall disgusted with the entire production, got into the driver’s seat and began to pull away.

Crowley dropped his phone back into his pocket and crossed his arms over his chest, beaming as the car disappeared into the night. “Oh, I’m gonna have to do up totals later. I think he’s nearly caught up in arrest counts with this one.” He turned to the teens, and as a group they began walking away. The police were breaking up anyway, and at some point Evans had gone back inside, presumably to sleep soundly now that the possible murderer was in custody. “Remind me to tell you about the Bastille sometime. When Aziraphale is there. He hates that story.”

The Them exchanged looks. “Is that the one you were talking about earlier tonight where you broke him out of prison?” Pepper asked, taking a few half-jogging steps with her bike to catch up to Crowley.

“Yep.”

“The  _ Bastille _ ?” Wensleydale was blinking furiously, the shock in his eyes magnified by his glasses. “It was the  _ Bastille _ ?”

“Yep. Viva la revolucion.” Crowley smirked, wandering along with his hands in his pockets. “We had crepes.”

“Why was -” Adam started, but Crowley was shaking his head.

“No, no. He has to tell you. It’s funnier when he tells that bit.” He snickered. “I’ll talk him into it sometime when he hasn’t been arrested.”

Adam nodded. “Yeah, definitely. Sounds wicked.”

The playing cards clicked in the spokes of the bikes for a while, the only sound apart from their footsteps on the pavement as the group headed down the streets of Tadfield toward the intersection of their streets. 

Then, quietly, Brian said, “Alright, you get two million pounds, right? But any time you sleep, the whole time you’re sleeping, the only thing you can dream about is doing your taxes.”

There was a thoughtful silence and then, speaking for at least 75% of the queried members of the party, Adam spoke. “That sounds,” he said slowly, “like the worst thing ever.”

Wensleydale, predictably said, “I dunno. Doesn’t sound so bad. And two million pounds is a lot of money.”


	6. Have a Knife Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: some blood, not much

It had been, so far, a fairly eventful morning, and it was only 6:30. Anathema had been awakened by the smell of coffee (not unusual), and had been greeted in the kitchen by a demon (not a daily occurrence, but also not unusual), and then, two sips into her morning cup, said demon had informed her that his partner-in-time-and-everything-else, an angel, had been arrested for murder.

“ _ What _ ?” she asked, hastily swallowing down her mouthful of coffee and narrowly avoiding spitting it out across the kitchen. “Aziraphale? They think it was him?”

“Yup,” Crowley replied, unconcerned. “They’ll never be able to hold him - he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Anathema looked around the kitchen, puzzled. “He wasn’t here?”

“Ha! No, not after you both fell asleep. He went out to have a look around, left you with a blessing.” He waved a hand to the walls of the cottage vaguely. “Nothing much, but good enough for the night.” He sighed, and sipped at his own coffee. “And then while he was down by the square, I guess, someone saw him skulking around and called the police.” He looked to her and shrugged, helplessly. “I came back after I made sure the kids got home, just in case, but I don’t think you were ever in any danger.”

Her mouth dropped open, and she stammered a little before she managed to get out, “Wha - were the Them there too?”

“They were with me - caught ‘em sneaking around, looking for the murderer. They went home after we saw Aziraphale off with the nice detectives.” He snickered. “All safe and sound in police custody.” He took a sip of coffee. “Anyway, they’ll question him this morning and I’ll probably have to go pick him up around, oh, noonish, I’d guess.” He glanced at his watch. “Gotta do a favor for him in the meantime, though.”

“Oh,” she said, because she wasn’t really sure what else to say about that. “Okay. I guess if they don’t have any evidence …”

“Just circumstantial stuff, that’s all. Oh!” Crowley set his coffee cup down and spun in the chair, fully facing her, and she frowned at the way he was smirking. “Wanna do something kind of fun? You could help me out with the favor, if you want. Nothing major, just tagging along.”

She swallowed another gulp of coffee and asked, slowly, cautiously, “What’s the favor?”

Crowley flourished a little piece of paper. It was too far away for her to read clearly, but she could see the neat copperplate handwriting on it from her place by the stove: Aziraphale’s. “He gave me a list of books he wants from the auction, asked me to go bid for him since it starts at eight. You in?”

“Am I in to go to an auction that a murderer will very likely be at?” She took a long drink of coffee, one eyebrow arched delicately. “What’s the dress code?”

-

That had been an hour and a half ago.“I can’t believe,” Anathema said now, as Crowley whipped the Bentley through Tadfield and toward the manor, “Aziraphale got arrested. For murder.”

Crowley sucked his teeth thoughtfully. “He’s been arrested before,” he pointed out. “Not for murder, I don’t think. At least not that I was around for. But other stuff. Mostly being a knob, honestly.”

“Aziraphale? No.” Anathema sighed, settled back in the passenger seat, and looked out of the window as the car turned onto the long drive. “I hope Newt’s okay - I thought we lost him there for a minute, when you told him.”

“Nah, he’s made of sterner stuff,” said Crowley, completely insincere. “I’m sure he’ll be alright after a nap and some whisky.” He wove past the long line of parked cards that edged the drive. Somehow, there was a perfectly Bentley-sized spot in front of the manor that Crowley guided his car into. “You have the list, right?”

“In my purse.” She patted her clutch, careful of the glass vials stored in the outer pocket, and the pocket knife in the inner pocket. Crowley nodded, satisfied, and they stepped out of the car together, Anathema pausing to smooth out her dress - a dark navy-blue number she’d had laying around in case of a fancy dinner, or a funeral - while Crowley strolled around the front of the Bentley and offered his arm.

Anathema laughed. “Oh, cordial. No wonder I had to get all dressed up. Has anyone ever told you you look good in a suit?”

“Constantly, but I have to give humans a chance,” Crowley replied, tired, as if the burden weighed heavily on him. It was all a put-on of course: Crowley relished drawing the eyes of humans, and probably only passed on the suit these days because it would be ultimately counterproductive to his goal of avoiding attention in retirement. “You clean up nice yourself, Book-girl. Thanks for agreeing to come with, by the way.”

“So flattering, thank  _ you _ .” There was a young lady at the door, unfamiliar to Crowley from the previous day and certainly not Martin*, and she gestured them inside. “So am I expected to do anything besides be your accompaniment?”

[*  _ Martin was, at that time, having a lovely morning lie-in at his parents’ home, relishing the smell of the cappucino his father was brewing and the breakfast his mother was cooking, and was feeling, deep in his soul, so grateful to the strange man from the day before - he couldn’t quite remember what he looked like, now, but no matter - who had suggested he do just this _ .]

“Huh? Definitely.  _ You’re _ gonna be in charge of the bidding. S’why I gave you the list.”

Anathema nearly stumbled in her surprise. “What? You said -”

Crowley smoothed his hair down a bit more as they walked, idly pulling out a tangle. “I lied. I do that, sometimes.” She shoved him away, and he weaved for a few steps, before falling back into stride alongside her. “Listen, I’m going to be busy looking for a murderer so I can clear Aziraphale’s name, so I’m going to be otherwise occupied. And if I miss out on one of those books he’s after, then he really will get arrested for murder, because he’s going to kill  _ me _ . Here.” He paused, pulled a checkbook out of some inner pocket of his coat, and scribbled something approximating a signature on the bottom line. “While there technically is a limit on this account, I’m not telling you what it is. Assume it doesn’t exist.” He tore the check out and handed it over.

“Oh.” She smiled slyly. “You have a pen?” She mimed writing on the thing. “Made out to Anathema Device for the sum of two billion pounds …”

Crowley snorted. “Two billion is pushing it. Fairly certain you’d bounce that check. Try to keep it under a million.”

She nodded solemnly. “I’ll do my best.” 

They had, by now, made their way to the library. Just like the day before, it was filled with the murmur of quiet conversation, albeit more subdued today, Crowley noted. They stopped outside of the door, Crowley fiddling with his tie and Anathema patting her hair, and exchanged a look. “I’m going to be -” she starts, but Crowley cuts her off with a wave.

“Course you will be, Book-girl. No one’s allowed to kill you but me.”

She resolved not to think about that too much: she was only in her twenties, young even by human standards, but she was well aware of her humanity, and by extension, her mortality. Sometimes she wondered if Crowley would be there, at her death, and she still wasn’t sure how that made her feel. “What a pal.” 

The young man standing at the door with a tray of mimosas forced a smile and a bow, and Crowley plucked a mimosa off the tray. Anathema murmured her thanks but declined, and the young man gestured to a tray of water glasses next to him, which she was happy to accept. “Right.” Crowley took a swig of mimosa and murmured to her, “Keep a sharp eye, alright? And if you see anything shady let me know. I already feel … something.”

“Murderous intent?” 

“Not quite.” They stepped into the library together, and she could see him glancing around behind the glasses, using the drink flute to hide his face as his tongue flicked out now and again to scent the air. “Nearly but … hang on, there it is.” The corners of his eyes wrinkled up as he narrowed them. “Right as we walked in. Someone’s not happy to see us.”

Anathema tried not to groan. “Delightful. Is it too late to back out?”

“Yes.” He glanced at her. “Well, not really, you could back out at any time, but I’d rather you didn’t, if it’s all the same to you.”

“I’m kidding. Sort of.” She looked around, carefully studying the auras of each person as much as she could, considering the number of people in the space. “It’s tough to get a real look at anyone when it’s so crowded.”

He snorted. “You’re telling me. Listen,” he muttered, glancing again to his watch, “Bidding starts in ten minutes. Let’s take a lap, tell me if you notice anything, and we’ll go from there. But when the bidding starts, I’ll leave you with the crowd and peel off.” He shook his head a little. “Whoever it is, they’re  _ really _ not happy I’m here.”

“Lucky you.” Anathema stepped away, suddenly all socialite smiles and polite greetings. Made sense, Crowley reasoned: she’d been raised with money, probably had been to a few society do’s over in America at some point. Which, of course, he’d expected. Obviously. Feeling very satisfied with himself, he turned the opposite direction, and wandered off into the crowd. 

Dr. Johnston was the most conspicuous absence he noted: some of her students were there, likely bidding in her stead, but she herself apparently hadn’t wanted to return after the prior day’s incident. There were other familiar faces though: Dr. Anand was there, speaking with a man Crowley presumed would be the auctioneer, and Mr. Evans was nearby, one arm in a sling, a ring of other prospective buyers around him, rapt as he was talking about something. Crowley took a sip of his mimosa, stood up a little straighter, and strode over.

“- saw him lurking outside of my hotel room!” Evans said, to a series of gasps from around the assembled listeners. “So of course I called the police right away, and no mistake.”

One of the women there nodded. “Well, of course you did. But … but Mr. Fell, really? I never thought of him as that sort of person.”

“Just can’t imagine he’d have done all those terrible things,” another person agreed.

Evans shrugged his good shoulder. “I never would have thought it myself, but I suppose you can’t judge a book by its cover, eh?” He laughed richly at his own joke, followed by tepid forced laughter from the others.

Fifteen feet away, Crowley watched carefully. Hilarious as Aziraphale getting arrested for murder was, he wasn’t sure he liked the way Evans was talking about the whole affair. Part of the comedic value of the arrest was that it was  _ Aziraphale _ , and from the man’s tone, it sounded as though Evans was missing that crucial point. Aziraphale wouldn’t ever  _ actually _ murder anyone - alright, yes, he’d shot at Adam one time during the Apocalypse but everyone agreed there were significant extenuating circumstances at play there - and to suggest that he would kill someone, or try to, rankled Crowley. He considered various methods of recourse and then decided that, as with many things, addressing the issue head-on was most likely to carry the greatest impact.

“ _ Very _ good joke Mr. - Evans, right?” Crowley smiled thinly. “Yes. Evans.”

Whatever amusement Evans had been enjoying up to that moment melted away, replaced with a pale, frightened stare. The other people - those who had seen Crowley before, or knew about him and his relationship to the nice Mr. Fell - stepped back, just a half step or so, and suddenly began to compete to see who could stare hardest into their drink, giving off an air of nonchalance. ‘Who, me, laughing about your boyfriend’s arrest? Never,’ their body language screamed, and their terror tasted like vinegar on Crowley’s tongue.

“Of course,” Crowley went on, as the gathered crowd started to sidle quickly away, still staring into their drinks, “the charges will never stick. It’s all circumstantial.” He sipped his own drink, staring Evans down all the while. “Wrong place, wrong time.”

The shorter man glanced left and right, and then stepped closer to Crowley. “You have a lot of nerve showing up here,” he hissed, and Crowley reckoned his anger might be palpable even to the other humans around. “Don’t they have some kind of legal proceedings to keep your lot  _ away _ ?”

Crowley’s eyebrows shot up. “My lot? Who’s that, then? Me? Anyone associated with Az - Ezra?” He brought his drink up, as if to sip, and scented the air instead.  _ Hm _ .

“Precisely,” Evans snapped, eyes narrowed. “You could be here to finish the job for him.”

“I am, as a matter of fact.” Crowley forced a little smile. “He had a few books he was worried he’d miss the auction for, being so inconveniently detained as he was.” He tapped his breast pocket. “Lucky for me, he had a list.”

“A list?” Crowley hadn’t really thought it possible for Evans to look more angry than he already did, and yet suddenly the man’s expression cramped even more, cheeks flushed red and hot. “Well … Well, then, get ready for  _ war _ .” The taste of anger seared through the air, claggy and bitter and familiar.

_ Aha, _ thought Crowley, as several pieces clicked into place at once.  _ You have no idea, little man _ . “Part of the fun, isn’t it?” he said instead, flashing a quick grin. “Ezra’s pretty sure they’ll make great additions to his collection, although damned if I know where he’s going to put them. He’s just got  _ so many _ ,” Crowley added with a dramatic little sigh, and he was pleased to see that Evans’ eyes bulged out a little, a vein throbbing at the man’s temple. “Anyway, good luck later. See you around.”

He didn’t turn around to look: He didn’t need to. Rather, he beelined across the room toward Anathema. The witch was standing off to the side, chatting with another woman who looked to be about her age, the two of them comparing canapes. Crowley fell in beside her, hands in his pockets. “Hey, Book-girl.”

The other woman smiled impishly. “This is your hot date, hm?”

Anathema laughed and elbowed Crowley with more force than necessary. “We’re just friends. My boyfriend is at home.  _ Anyway, _ ” she turned to Crowley, her facial expression signaling a variety of things, all of which boiled down to ‘save me’, “time to start the bidding,  _ buddy _ ?”

“Bud - yeah. Yeah.” He put his arm around her shoulder and started to pull her away. “ _ So sorry _ to impose, just need a private word with Book-girl before we start up. Lovely meeting you.”

Anathema waited until they were on the opposite side of the room and stood in the shadow of a bookshelf before she snapped at him. “Is it  _ always _ like this with you?”

“Like what?” Crowley was thoroughly bewildered, looking around. “What happened?”

“Geri happened.” She cocked her head towards the woman they’d escaped, who was still watching them. “She saw me come in with you. I was trying to look around, check out the auras, but the minute I got by myself all she wanted to do was try to get all your details. You’re so  _ handsome _ ,” she added, with a thin veneer of disgust, although she was also grinning, which softened the blow a bit. “I tried to tell her you’re not her type, but no dice.”

Crowley nodded. “Happens all the time. I mean, look at me.” He dodged the prod Anathema aimed toward his ribs, and side-stepped around her, the better to keep an eye on the room. “Anyway, sorry, but it was a waste of your time. Pretty sure I know who did it.”

Her eyes widened, and she turned to look around the room, eyes darting left-to-right over all the assembled crowd. “Who?”

“This … That guy from the pub the other night, Evans, remember him? Listen, I was talking to him, and he’s  _ so angry _ I’m here. You could probably pick up on it, even. What’s his aura look like?” He glanced around. “I’m sure it’s him. I … where is he?”

Anathema was looking around too, brow furrowed. “Older guy? Gray hair, big glasses, goatee, right? He had his arm in a sling today, after the slide thing last night. I don’t see him.” She looked to Crowley. “That can’t be good.”

“Nope,” he agreed. “I think … we had better split up. You have the list, right?”

“Yes. Are you sure?”

“Yes. He thinks I have the list.” On the podium at the head of the room, Dr. Anand had taken the stage, and was waving her arms to get the attention of the collected bidders. They watched her as she tapped a knife against a glass, until the rest of the room fell quiet and grew attentive.

“Thank you all for coming, although of course we are very sorry for the circumstances this is occurring under,” she shouted. “Unfortunately, we seem to be having some technical problems, so we’re going to have to delay the beginning of the auction by perhaps fifteen minutes or so. Thank you for understanding. And, ah, if anyone has seen a length of audio cable that might connect a microphone to a speaker, please do let us know?”

Crowley and Anathema exchanged a look. “Gotta be him,” she said, while he nodded emphatically. “So now what? We should call Barnaby, right?”

“And tell him what?” the demon asked her, tone flat. “I don’t have any evidence that’s admissible in court. Not yet, anyway. No, I’m going to go gather evidence, first.”

She raised her eyebrows. “How?”

“Demon stuff. Your job,” he whispered, pointing to the podium, “is to keep your eyes on the books. I’m serious: If I don’t get all of those books on that list, I might as well move to Siberia for the next century, forget the South Downs.” 

“What are you going to do?”

“Demon stuff,” he repeated, slower. “Do not follow me. Books, alright, Book-girl?”

“What if he throws Holy Water on you?” she hissed.

Behind his glasses, Crowley blinked and then he smirked, amused. “Why would he do that? D’you tell him about me?” Anathema shook her head. “And are people in the habit of throwing Holy Water on intended murder victims?”

She glowered. “Alright, fine. But you could still be discorporated!”

“Could be, but I don’t think I will. I don’t need much warning to pull off a miraculous escape.” He put his hands on her shoulders, and gave her a little shove toward the crowd. “Stay with all of the people - near the books - and you’ll be alright. And win those lots, okay?”

She stepped away, glaring at him over her shoulder. “You will yell if you need help, right?”

“The loudest scream you’ll ever hear,” he assured her. “But if he manages to kill me we have bigger problems, and in that case I’d recommend running.” He waved a hand at her. “Go on, stick close to the books, be back in a bit. Promise.” She didn’t say anything in response to that, but she was still glaring at him as she waded back into the crowd, water glass in hand. Crowley waved, grinning, and then set his drink aside and wove his way through the crowd and out of the library.

The hall beyond wasn’t completely deserted: By the looks of it, two employees from the sound equipment company were arguing about where the missing cord might have been mislaid. Dr. Anand was trying to mediate, desperately, and not being very successful at it. As Crowley stepped out of the library, she caught sight of him, and shook her head, exasperated.

“So sorry,” she said, raising her voice over the other pair. “It won’t be a moment, if all else fails they have an extra one at the office -”

“No worries. Loo?”

“Ah.” She pointed down the hall beyond the doors to the library, where Crowley hadn’t been before. “Just down there, around the corner to the right and then it’s the second door on the right after. If you get to the stairs to the cellar, you’ve gone too far.”

“Cheers.” He strode past, down the long hall and around the corner, out of sight.

That hall  _ was  _ deserted. Well, nearly. The feeling of Evans - the anger, the jealousy - was heavy in the air, but Crowley couldn’t quite see him yet. He considered scenting the air and trying to localize the man a bit, but no, he thought. Why take the fun out of it? Instead, he stuck his hands into his pockets and started to stroll down the hall.

He only had one good arm, Crowley thought. That put strangulation out, and probably assault. Of course, it was his non-dominant arm, and depending on how strong he was he could still go for a blow to the head, but Crowley didn’t think the book dealer had it in him. The hall didn’t have any chandeliers or heavy-looking sculptures to conveniently tip over, either. Stabbing and shooting, he reasoned, were probably out, since Evans seemed to favor methods of killing that hinged on plausible deniability - an old man found dead, only discovered to be forcibly suffocated through clues a lesser coroner and inspector might have missed, a mysterious fire, a collapsed bookshelf or structure … 

The bathroom door was a plain brown thing, rich old oak, and very solid. Crowley laid his hand on the knob, starting to puzzle over the possible poison options, when he felt something cool and sharp press up against his back, just next to his left shoulderblade.

_ Alright, well, that’s unexpected _ , he thought, and he froze. Slowly, he put his hands up. “Evans, I’d imagine,” he said quietly. 

The other man didn’t confirm, but when he spoke, Crowley recognized the voice. “You  _ bastard _ . You weren’t supposed to  _ be here _ !” The knife pressed a little deeper, and Crowley thought he could maybe feel the tip poke through the fabric of his suit. 

“I’m sure this isn’t necessary,” he said, slowly and calmly. “This is over a few books, yes? Be reasonable: I’m sure we can reach some kind of agreement.”

“Oh, I’m sure we can. Turn around. Slowly.” Crowley did. Evans was standing there, left arm in his sling and right hand holding a very long, very sharp carving knife. Crowley blinked, and the shorter man snarled. “Don’t say a word.” Crowley shook his head. “I’m in charge here, and I’m going to tell you what to do.” He waited. Crowley, not sure if he was expected to speak or not and not particularly wanting to miracle himself out of this  _ yet _ , just nodded. “Good. Walk backwards.” 

Crowley did, not bothering to glance behind himself. The hall had been fairly clear, as far as he’d been able to see*. His shoes were quiet on the tile, and he didn’t look away from Evan’s face, hands still raised in surrender. 

[*  _ Which, admittedly, was not very, but it was devoid of large obstacles, anyway _ .]

“Pivot,” Evans directed, and Crowley did. The knife came forward, and Crowley took a step back, bumping into … yes, yes a door, just like the last. “Open the door.” Slowly and without looking, he reached behind himself and clicked the latch up. The door swung away from him, and cool, dank air oozed out of the opening. 

That would be the cellar.

Evans was smiling now. He nodded. “Good. Now another step backwards.” Crowley didn’t move. Evans waved the knife at his belly, threatening. “Now.”

“I’ll fall,” Crowley said, not moving.

Evans sighed. “Yes. A tragic accident. But you might not die.”

“Oh.” Crowley considered the options, and then chuckled. “No, I definitely won’t. Takes more than a fall down one flight of stairs to kill me.”

“We’ll see about that.” Evans shrugged. “Now  _ move _ .”

“And if I don’t?” 

The knife waggled. “Then maybe you threatened to finish the job your boyfriend started, and I feared for my life. You’ll  _ definitely _ die with that option. Like your odds?”

“Huh.” Crowley slid his foot back, more to judge the distance to the top of the first step than anything. A foot, maybe more, but not much. “Not really.” He rocked back onto his back foot, and then paused. “And really, all of this over a few books?”

Evans scoffed. “ _ A few books _ . As if your bloody boyfriend hasn’t been driving me mad for the past twenty years. He buys up every rare misprint in the country! And don’t get me started on the books of prophecy! Other people like to collect things too, you know!”

“I do,” Crowley said, trying to be placating. “But it’s books, man. This is … this is worth a lot more than a few books.” He waved a hand vaguely, intending to indicate the stairs behind him. “This is  _ murder _ . One of the big ones.”

“It’s only murder if I get caught,” he growled in response. “Now  _ move _ , you bloody snake. You’re getting in my way.” He thrust the knife forward, just far enough to poke through the fine silk of Crowley’s shirt. There wasn’t pain, but there was a warm, wet feeling as a trickle of blood oozed out around the point of the blade.

Crowley froze. Blinked. And then, slowly, allowed a smile to creep its way onto his face. A nice, broad smile. A friendly smile, that showed all of his teeth. Even, he made sure, the rather  _ long _ ones. Long, and sharp. “Ah,” he said, as the smell of rage became tinged with the vinegar-sour smell of fear. The point of the knife withdrew. He lowered his hands, only to reach up and slide his glasses off, carefully folding the arms in and tucking them into his jacket pocket. “ _ Am _ I?”

Evans opened and closed his mouth a few times. He choked out a few sounds - attempts at words - and the knife tumbled from his slack fingers. “D - You …  _ Devil _ .” 

“One of them,” Crowley agreed, and then he lunged.

Evans was actually the one to scream, when he hit the ground under Crowley. It was a wordless, terrified scream, completely insensible, and there was a part of Crowley - a very, very small, very well-buried part - that sang and hissed and salivated at the sound. Had he been a Duke of Hell, he thought in that moment, aware of the trembling of the floor as people came running, he might have bit out Evan’s throat right there, or envenomated him and left him to die mysteriously, contorted and terrified. 

But he  _ wasn’t _ a Duke of Hell. He was just Crowley, retired demon and experienced bastard, and so he didn’t do any of those things. Rather, he adjusted himself so that he was sitting on Evan’s chest, the man’s good arm pinned under his knee. The book dealer wasn’t struggling, just screaming and shaking, so it wasn’t any trouble or worry to let go of him, either, the better to pull his glasses back out of his pocket and put them on. As an afterthought, Crowley reached down and tore the hole in his shirt a little wider, squeezed a little more blood out of the tiny wound, and smeared the blood around for additional dramatic effect. Just because.

“Oh, my God!” Dr. Anand was the first to arrive, and as she turned the corner she slid to a stop, clenched hands raised in front of her face. “Oh, God! Someone call the police!”

“He tried to kill me!” Crowley shouted, pinning Evans’ arm with his left hand and pointing to the knife with his right. “He tried to stab me!”

On his back on the floor, Evans stopped screaming just long enough to look back up to Crowley - the demon’s sunglasses safely back in place - and then start to struggle. “Demon!” he screeched, legs flailing, writing around on the floor. “He’s a demon! Get away!”

Dr. Anand had run over, and she kicked the knife away down the hall and out of reach before she clamped a hand on Crowley’s jacket and hauled him up. She was followed by the sound company employees, nervously hovering in the background until she pointed to Evans and barked, “Grab him!” They did, clearly uncertain as to whether or not he presented a threat with the bad arm, but they grabbed the shoulders of his tweed jacket regardless. Dr. Anand was looking Crowley up and down, hands fluttering in the area of his stomach nervously. “Oh, God, oh, are you okay? We need an ambulance, you should lay down, we should -”

“It’s not all that bad,” Crowley tried to say. Tried to, because halfway through the first word Anathema stormed around the corner, hands balled up into fists and her shoulders hunched. She marched straight up to Crowley, propped her hands on her hips, and looked him up and down.

“You idiot,” she concluded. Dr. Anand gaped at her, but after a shocked second of silence, Crowley started to laugh.

“Hey,  _ I’m _ the one that got stabbed -”

Evans was screaming again. “He’s a demon!” They turned to see him between the two workers, apparently held up by his jacket, because his entire body was trembling too violently for him to possibly be standing under his own power. Weakly, he thrust a finger toward Crowley. “He’s got snake eyes! And fangs!  _ Demon _ !”

Slowly, one eyebrow raised delicately, Anathema turned to look to Crowley. He shrugged. “I’m not a demon,” he said. 

“Of course not,” Dr. Anand said, her voice shaking as she worked on taking long, slow breaths. She looked from Crowley, back to Evans, and then again to Crowley. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Anathema didn’t break eye contact with Crowley. “Yes. Ridiculous. Preposterous.”

“He  _ stabbed _ me,” Crowley added, a little weakly, gesturing to his belly. “I’m bleeding.”

“Yes.” Dr. Anand seemed to break out of the shock for a second, turning to look at the auction-goers who had gathered at the end of the hall, their expressions ranging from horror to unconcealed amusement. “Don’t just stand there: Someone get him a chair, he’s been stabbed!” There was a flurry of movement and from the crowd, a simple wooden chair appeared. Crowley eased himself into it theatrically, wincing and bracing the tiny wound with apparent pain. If the movement smeared the blood around a bit more and made it look a bit more severe, well, all the better.

“It’s not all that bad, honestly,” he said, breathing heavily. Anathema rolled her eyes. “I think I just need a bandage. Just stings, is all.”

“Nonsense; we’ll let the medics determine that.” Anand put her hand on his shoulder, watching Evans closely all the while. “What happened?”

Crowley groaned and slumped down. “It all happened so fast,” he said faintly. Behind Dr. Anand, Anathema shook her head very slightly, and mouthed, ‘Too much’. He sat up a bit straighter, still keeping his hand over the little slash. “I went to find the bathroom,” he went on, as Evans sank to the floor off to his right, “and I went too far and opened the door to the cellar.” Anand nodded. “When I turned around to head back, there he was with a bloody great knife. Said I should throw myself down the stairs, or he’d stab me and say I threatened him.” Dr. Anand gasped. Anathema looked surprised, and Crowley met her eyes, nodding. “Truly. And then, well, I lunged at him. I thought maybe I could take him.”

“Well thank goodness you did!” Dr. Anand gasped, patting Crowley on the shoulder. “Oh, how terrifying. That was incredibly brave, to jump at him.”

“Aw, well, anyone would have done it,” Crowley said, feigning embarrassment. “I’m just glad I could stop him.” He winced as he shifted positions. “Ow.”

“The medics will be here soon, dear.” Dr. Anand patted him again. 

“I’m sure they have plenty of Band-aids,” Anathema muttered. When Evans started shrieking about demons again, Crowley took the chance to stick his tongue out at her: A gesture she unflinchingly returned.

“Take off his glasses!” Evans insisted, hysterical. “He has snake eyes!  _ Demon _ !”

Dr. Anand and the sound system employees gave Crowley a look that was half pity, half curiosity. “I’d rather not,” he said, a little tremulous. “It’s my eyes … you know.”

“Of course,” the antiques dealer said reassuringly. “Of course. He’s just in a state.”

“Bloodlust, I’d imagine,” Crowley said, looking over toward Evans. “And he said it was all over some  _ books _ . I’ll bet he killed Bartleby, too!”

“Despicable.” Anand shook her head, and then looked to the assembled auction customers, who had crept a bit closer. “Did someone call the police?”

The woman who spoke was, surprisingly, Geri. She raised her hand as she did, and she said, “I did. They said they had officers in the vicinity, and could be here soon.” There was, barely audible, the muffled wail of a siren. “I think that’s them, actually.”

“Thank goodness.”

Indeed, the officers arrived less than a minute later, running and shoving through the crowd and over to Crowley and Evans. They had the book dealer apprehended, his hands bound together in front of him with zip-ties in a matter of seconds. Only then did another officer hurry over to Crowley, bending down to inspect the wound. “Alright, mate?” he asked, cocking his head to try to see what he could without touching the messy black silk.

“I think so,” Crowley said, pulling the shirt aside gingerly. “I think it looks worse than it is. Just stings, is all.”

“That’s good. Hang in there; the medics are just behind us. You’ll be alright.” He looked to his partner, who was holding Evans by the good bicep and talking to Dr. Anand, and then to Anathema. “You with him?”

“He’s my friend,” she confirmed. “I can wait with him, if you need to go.”

“Don’t move him,” the officer cautioned her, before stepping away to help his partner. Anathema nodded in response, and stepped around Crowley’s chair. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” she said, bending down and wrapping him in a hug from behind. It was all the better for her to whisper in his ear, “What did you do?”

“Got stabbed,” he muttered. “Honestly. I didn’t pull any funny business until after.”

“You’ll tell me about it later?”

“‘Course.”

“Good.” She peered at his shirt, and the little tear where the blood was thickest. “I can’t even see the wound. Is - is that little scratch it?”

Crowley huffed. “It’s not a scratch! Look at all the blood! I got stabbed!”

“Barely.”

“ _ It hurts _ .”

“Poor baby.” She straightened up and patted his head. “I think you’ll live, though. I’m sure Aziraphale can kiss it and make it better.”

Crowley brightened. “Ooh, I hope he does.” More raised voices - one of which was familiar and recognizable as Barnaby’s - and the DI himself, accompanied by DS Winter, appeared around the corner. The crowd of auction-goers parted to make way for them, murmuring excitedly. A few feet away, Barnaby said something to Winter, inaudible over the crowd, and the younger man split off, beating a path straight for the two constables and Mr. Evans.

“Mr. Crowley,” Inspector Barnaby said with a sigh, drawing up in front of the demon and tiredly flipping his notebook open. “Again.”

“I got stabbed,” Crowley said urgently, pointing to his stomach. “Look.”

“So you did. Care to tell me what happened?”

He did, as succinctly as he could. Occasionally, he would glance over to Evans. The other man was speaking urgently, and intermittently would look over in Crowley’s direction, too. This was, fairly invariably, followed by increasingly unconvinced shrieks of “Demon!” Each time Winter would nod, sigh, and gently guide the thread of conversation back to what he was trying to establish was reality. 

“Right,” Barnaby said, when Crowley had finished his version of events. He licked his thumb and paged back through the notebook, eyes flicking back and forth over the notes he’d written. The medics, who had arrived and started evaluating him about halfway through the account, took the opportunity to reassure Crowley that it really was just a superficial wound, no harm done, just must have hit a capillary bed to bleed so much. They offered to take him to A&E anyway, just to be safe, or to speak to an emergency psychiatrist if he wanted, but for the wound, the head medic assured him, a warm washcloth and some gentle soap and water followed by a simple bandage for a few days would be just fine. 

“You know, I think I’ll be alright. I, uh, I’ll speak to my therapist later,” he added when the medic looked worried. Anathema, positioned behind the medic, shook her head ruefully.

“Well, in that case, we’ll get you a bandage then, won’t be a mo’,” the medic said, before the two of them wandered back to the gurney and their kit. One of the constables took a few more photos of Crowley’s shirt and stomach, just to be safe, and then the medics returned, handing over a pack of wet wipes. 

“So let me make sure I have the events down correctly,” Barnaby drawled, while Crowley unbuttoned his shirt and began to wipe up the blood. “You left the main library room to use the restroom. When you entered the hallway, you opened the wrong door, revealing the door to the cellar.”

“Yes.”

Barnaby nodded, and turned the page. “You turned around, at which point you saw Mr. Evans standing before you, holding a knife.” Crowley confirmed, and he went on, “At that point, Mr. Evans threatened you, and told you that either you would fall down the stairs, or he would kill you and claim self-defense.”

“Correct.”

“And you questioned his motives?”

Crowley looked up, hand full of bloody wet-wipe, and nodded earnestly. “Yeah. Said it was about the books. My … husband, he and Evans have been in a feud for years, I guess, and  _ he _ said -” he looked sharply to Evans and earned a squeak from the other man in response, “- that Ezra’s always buying up all the best rare misprints, and he was sick of it. Wanted some for himself.”

“Right. And then he reinforced that you would either fall down the stairs, or he would stab you?”

Crowley nodded. “And then he stabbed me. So I jumped on him.”

“Why didn’t you jump on him before?” Barnaby asked mildly, eyebrows raised.

“Well, I didn’t  _ want _ to assault him, did I? And I didn’t think he’d actually stab me, until he did.”

Barnaby made a note of that. He was quiet for a moment, reviewing his notes once more, and then closed the notebook with a snap. The medics, who had been hovering nearby with a bandage* at the ready, swooped in and stuck the thing over Crowley’s wound. Anathema beamed and whispered, “All better.”

[*  _ Due to a shortage of plain bandages at dispatch, it was a Caillou bandage. Crowley didn’t mind: he was rather proud of Caillou. He’d never gotten a commendation for it, but that was Hell for you. _ ]

“I believe I have your phone number already: You will be contacted regarding the investigation as it moves to trial. Will you be hiring a solicitor?”

“Ah -” Crowley thought of the solicitors he knew, and bit his lip. “Probably. Not sure who, yet.”

Barnaby looked amused. “Man like you, I would have thought you already had a solicitor on retainer.”

“Well. Not for assault.” And it was true, surprisingly: real estate, yes, contracts, yes, litigation, copyright, and finances, yes. But not assault. That had never really been Crowley’s scene. “I’ll have to ask around.”

“You still have my card?” Crowley nodded. “Then give my office a call with their name, once you have it sorted. In the interim, we’ll keep you updated on proceedings, and if any more information comes to light, we may ask you to come in for additional questioning.” He watched Crowley for a moment, and then decided that whatever he had been wondering about could wait, turning instead to watch Winter take down another note as Evans spoke. 

Still in the chair, Crowley glanced from the medics to Barnaby. “Er, sorry, but if he’s being arrested, does that mean Ezra’s going to be released? When can I go?”

“Hm? Oh. Oh, yes.” Barnaby fiddled with his tie. “I was actually on the phone with the station when the call for this came in: Mr. Fell completed his questioning, and was waiting for you to come and pick him up. In light of the circumstances, I think we can arrange a cab for him -”

“Am I free to go?” 

“Well …” Barnaby considered it. “Well, yes. But you’re in no state to drive,” he added severely, while the medics nodded in firm agreement. “If you really insist I suppose I could give you a lift -”

“I’m fine to drive.” Barnaby looked at him, incredulous, and Crowley spread his hands. “Not intoxicated, perfectly in my right mind, and they said it’s nothing serious. I can drive.”

“I  _ really _ don’t think it wise -”

Crowley heaved a sigh. “Driving’s how I relax, Detective Inspector. I assure you, I’m  _ fine _ .”

“I’ll drive him.” Anathema stepped forward, her clutch held authoritatively in one hand as she gestured toward Crowley with it. “I’m with him, I can drive.”

“You  _ can not _ ,” Crowley sneered. “Not the Bentley.”

One of the medics whistled. “Cor, that’s yours? Saw it comin’ in - beautiful car. Good on you, mate.”

“Thanks,” Crowley said, distracted and smiling for a second. Then he shook himself and turned back to Anathema. “You can  _ definitely _ not drive it.”   


She rolled her eyes. “Well  _ you’re _ not going to.”

“I am,” he retorted, crossing his arms over his chest and sitting up. “I’m fine to drive, and anyway, you have to stay here and bid on the books until I get back with Az - Ezra.”

“Detective Barnaby?” They looked over to Winter, who waved his boss over with his notebook. “A moment, please? Just before we head to the station for booking.”

Barnaby nodded, and turned back to Crowley. “Excuse me. We’ll be in touch. And as for driving … Well, it’s not  _ illegal _ , per se, but I would  _ strongly advise _ that you wait until you’ve processed the stress before you operate heavy machinery.” He frowned. “We’ll be in touch,” he said before he walked away, and he didn’t look at all happy about that prospect.

“Oh.” Crowley shrugged. “Well, that’s alright then. It’s a Bentley, not a forklift.”

The head medic snickered as they took a step backwards toward the gurney. “I think cars qualify as heavy machinery, technically. You sure you don’t want a ride in to A&E?”

“Quite. Thank you for the bandage.” He looked down to his stomach. Caillou beamed back up at him. The medics nodded, chuckled amongst themselves, and retreated to their gurney, rolling the empty thing away through the crowd and back out toward the waiting ambulance. Crowley looked back up to Anathema. “Well? What’re you waiting for?”

She gawked at him for a second, before gesturing broadly to the crowd. “They’re not gonna continue with the auction today! There was almost a murder!”

“Well  _ sort of _ -”

“No.” She shook her head. “No. There’s not going to be an auction today, and  _ even if there is _ , I’m not bidding in it. I’m driving you down to the station - don’t give me that look, the Bentley drives itself - and we can pick up Aziraphale and he can bid on the books later, when they have a … a rain date. Murder date. Whatever.”

Crowley hummed a little, thoughtfully. “Maybe. Dr. Anand?” The antiques dealer was at the edge of the crowd closest to Crowley and Anathema, and when she heard her name she nodded to the constable standing guard and hurried over. “Hi, yes, I -”

“Are you alright?” she asked urgently, wide-eyed. Worried. “I’m so sorry, it’s really dreadful, if you need -”

“I’m fine.” He raised his hands and smiled, sitting forward. “Just a nick, really. I’ll be alright by tomorrow.” He pointed to the plaster on his stomach. “Got a bandage, see? Didn’t even need to go to hospital.”

She looked dubious. “You were stabbed.”

“Just a little.” He leaned forward, hands on his knees. “Listen, about the books - Mr. Fell will be  _ really _ upset about the stabbing thing, and I wouldn’t like him to miss any books on top of it all. Will you be postponing the auction?”

“Er.” She grimaced, suddenly uncomfortable as she looked back to the crowd. “Ah, well. Well, I’m sure we could find someone to bid in his stead, since you’re in no condition to -”

“You’re still  _ having it _ ?” Anathema marveled. “There was an attempted murder!”

Dr. Anand bit her lip. “Well … Well,  _ yes _ , but! The murderer is in custody, and we already hired out the auctioneer and the speakers and everything, and there’s so much food.” She wilted a little. “We’re going to start with the more valuable lots to save time, now, and whatever we don’t get through by the end of the day will go up for private auction through my shop later. But yes, we’re still having it.” She shrugged as Anathema blinked at her, shocked. “The constables assured us that they will have a few officers here just in case, but as I said, it appears the culprit behind all of this awful business has been apprehended.”

“And just in time, too!” Using the back of the chair as leverage, Crowley pushed himself upright, wobbling a little for the look of it. Anand reached out to him as if to catch him, but he straightened up, poised as ever, and smoothed his jacket down over the ruined shirt. “Book-girl. Er. Anathema,” he added, when she glared at him, “I don’t trust anyone to bid in Ezra’s stead except for you and me, no offense, Doctor.”

“Oh, understood,” she said, with a wave of her hand. “Completely.”

“ _ Please _ stay?” If he’d taken his sunglasses off he really could have tried the puppy-dog eyes - Aziraphale was always better at it, but Crowley did the best with what he had - but in front of all these people and with Evans still occasionally whining about demons he thought it would be best not to, even with a mind-bending little miracle. “I’ll call a cab and not drive, and then we’ll come right back so you don’t have to be here the whole time.”

She laughed, not even hiding her doubt. “You will not. You’ll  _ drive _ , and then you’ll get  _ lunch _ , and -”

“And you have the list and a check, so you’ll be  _ fine _ .” He clasped his hands, as if in prayer, and she laughed even harder. Crowley bit the inside of his cheek, the better to stifle a grin and maintain his pathetic guise. “ _ Please _ ?”

Dr. Anand was looking between the two of them like a spectator at a tennis match, clearly well-aware that there were depths of unknown history in play, but unwilling to wade in. Anathema, arms crossed, scowled at Crowley for a full fifteen seconds, both of them twitching into an almost-smile every few seconds the entire time, before she threw her head back and heaved a tremendous, burdened sort of sigh. “ _ Fine _ . Fine. I will do this thing, but it’s for Ezra, not you.  _ You _ are going to owe me.”

“Oh, big time, very much so, definitely. I owe you the entire next 100 years, in which I will not be forced to move to Siberia.”

“More’s the pity.” Anathema smirked. “But I accept.” She sighed again and smiled at Dr. Anand. “Alright. I’ll be bidding for Mr. Fell, I guess. Until they get back, anyway.”

Crowley inclined his head in a semblance of a little bow. “Thank you, I’d kiss you but it’d be weird.” Instead, he and Anathema exchanged a high-five. “Back before you know it.”

“The way you drive? You might be back before the auction starts.”

“Maybe. If we don’t stop for lunch, first.”

As Crowley started to walk away, hardly even limping, Dr. Anand hazarded, “We have plenty of food.”

“Thanks,” he said, spinning to face her and walking backwards. “M’sure it’s great, but he’ll probably want crepes. It’s kind of his post-jail thing. Ciao!” And with that, grinning all the while, he wove his way through the murmuring crowd, and swaggered out of the mansion, toward the Bentley gleaming at the curb. “Alright,” he said, sliding into the drivers’ seat and waving the ignition switch on, “off to rescue the angel. Again.”

The engine hummed, Freddie Mercury started singing about wanting to break free, and the car rumbled out of its spot on the curb and down the driveway, out of sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta-da! That's it for the main story, although there's still an epilogue left to go. Yay! Hope you enjoyed it thus far!


	7. Epilogue

It wasn’t until Crowley saw Aziraphale’s horrified expression that he realized he probably should have miracled his shirt mended on the way over to the police station. Aziraphale was seated on a bench outside of the station, waiting patiently with hands folded, and when he’d seen the Bentley roll up he’d smiled broadly and climbed in, possibly with more enthusiasm than he ever had before for a car ride with Crowley. Then he saw the shirt, still tattered and bloody, and his mouth dropped open, blue eyes wide and alarmed. “What  _ happened _ ?”

“Evans did it!” Crowley replied, beaming. “All of it! The murder, the attempt on Johnston’s life - he even tried to get some of her students on the slide at the maze last night, but the damn thing gave out before he could get down. Confessed it all!”

Aziraphale frowned. “No, that’s not what I meant. I meant to you! Look at you! Are you hurt, Crowley?”

“Oh.” He looked down to his belly and said, as an afterthought while he put the car into gear and started to drive away from the station, “Evans stabbed me, but I’m alright.”

“ _ Stabbed you _ ? Crowley! Stop driving, let me have a look at it, I can heal it -”

Crowley groaned and batted Aziraphale’s hands away as the angel reached for his shirt, the better to pull it aside and try to examine the wound. “Stop it! I said I’m fine!” He snapped his fingers, and the ruined shirt was replaced with a new one, in pristine black silk, just as the other had been. “The medics checked it, it’s just a flesh wound, I’ll be fine in a few days.”

Aziraphale looked a little hurt. “I could heal it, though. Wouldn’t take a moment.”

“They put a Caillou bandage on it.”

“Oh. Is that a type of special ointment?”

Crowley snickered. “If you like. You can have a look at it later, when we’re home - I left Book-girl unattended with your list and a blank check at the auction, and we ought to get back to her.” He swerved around a corner, wheels drifting, and then screeched to a halt, Aziraphale lurching forward in the seat with the unexpected movement. He leaned across the seats then and kissed the angel square on the mouth. “Missed you.”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley, the lines around his eyes crinkling in annoyance - no doubt at the sudden stop - to fondness, before he leaned in and kissed Crowley back. “And you,” he murmured, when they broke apart. “You know, being arrested isn’t nearly as bad these days as it was the last time.”

“Glad to hear it.” Crowley grinned, still nose-to-nose with his angel. “Still glad they didn’t keep you.”

“I know.” Aziraphale sighed. “You are such a social creature.” He tapped Crowley on the tip of his nose. “What was it you said about getting back to the auction? I think you’d better start driving if we’re to make it back before she gets into too much trouble.”

“Eh. Thought we’d stop for lunch, first. She’s got the list and the check, she’ll be alright for a bit.”

“You  _ just _ said -” but he trailed off and stopped. Crowley had lowered his glasses just enough to peer over the rims, glancing from Aziraphale to, conspicuously, a building to the left of the car. Aziraphale turned to look. And then he laughed. “Crepes, Crowley? Really?”

Crowley propped his chin on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “We had such a good lunch last time, I thought why mess with a good thing?” Aziraphale glanced down, and Crowley glanced up to meet his gaze, his glasses still slid halfway down his nose. “Fancy a bite? A taste of freedom, you might say?”

The angel chuckled, and planted a kiss firmly in the middle of the demon’s forehead. “If you’re sure. Wily old serpent.”

“Best there’s ever been,” Crowley replied, not moving.

Aziraphale sighed, his head leaned against Crowley’s just for a moment. “I should say so.” They sat like that for a bit, hands intertwined on the armrest between them, until Aziraphale’s stomach grumbled. Loudly.

“Romantic,” murmured Crowley, his eyes closed but a smirk on his lips. “Incredibly alluring.”

“Do you think they have raspberry melba?”

“Dunno. Let’s go find out.”

What was to be a “quick stop for lunch” turned into a three-hour crepe tasting, Aziraphale sampling all of the dishes that sounded the most interesting, and Crowley drinking espresso and watching him with contented glee. When the angel had finally eaten his fill, Crowley casually mentioned to auction again, and Aziraphale was momentarily very distraught about leaving Anathema to her own - hah - Devices for all that time, until he spotted a cafe across the street as they were leaving and insisted they each get a warm drink for the drive back to Tadfield.

As the Bentley cruised off the motorway at the Tadfield exit, Crowley glanced at the clock and winced. “Auction’ll be over by the time we get there. Here.” He rustled around in a coat pocket for a minute, before handing his phone over to Aziraphale. “Call Book-girl, see where she’s got to - we’ll meet her wherever.”

Anathema answered on the second ring. “Where have you  _ been _ ?”

“In an interrogation room, actually,” Aziraphale replied, after sparing a bewildered glance to the phone. “I thought you knew -”

“Oh. Hi, Aziraphale. Doing alright?”

“Yes, rather.” His face relaxed into an easy smile. “Just a misunderstanding, it would seem. Crowley tells me they have the true villain in custody.”

“Seems like it. Did you have a nice lunch?”

“Why, yes! Oh, it was quite lovely, Crowley found a place that did wonderful crepes, best I’ve had in years, really, and I had to try the savory and the sweet just -”

Crowley nudged him with his knee. “Where is she? Talk about lunch  _ later _ .”

“Ah, right, sorry. Went on a bit of a tangent, I suppose.” On the other end of the line, Anathema laughed and reassured him it was no trouble. “Crowley’s driving and would like to meet you wherever you might be at the moment. Are you still at the auction?”

“No!” she replied brightly. “No, they did all your books right at the top, practically, so Newt came and picked me up. We’re at home.” There was a muffled shout in the background, followed by some excited barking. “The Them are here too. They want to hear about jail.”

Aziraphale sat back with a sigh. “Well, I’m afraid they’ll be rather disappointed. But you said you got  _ all _ of the books on the list? One second - go to the cottage, Crowley, she’s already home.” The demon nodded and continued to drive, muttering about where the new additions to the book hoard might end up. “Did you have any trouble? Was it contentious?”

“Not really. A little. Listen, I’ll tell you about it when you get here,” she said when the barking started again. “I can’t - It’s hard to hear right now.”

“Pip pip, dear, be there in two shakes. Crowley, how do you turn this off, again?”

Crowley grit his teeth. “Red circle button, angel. Just tap it.” At length, Aziraphale handed the phone back, and Crowley tapped the screen several more times where the red ‘end call’ button should be, just in case, not bothering to look down and check. He was fairly certain, knowing Aziraphale, that the angel had not figured out how to hang up. “‘Pip pip’ and ‘two shakes’?” He asked, tossing the phone onto the dash. “Really? What year is it?”

“2022, dear.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Aziraphale smiled thinly and settled back into the seat, wiggling a little. “I know.” He turned to Crowley, brows knit, wide-eyed. “Forgive me? I was in jail all night, it’s been a  _ very _ trying day.”

Crowley looked over, lip curled. He didn’t say anything for a bit, and then he sighed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Aziraphale hold out his hand, palm open and upraised. “Alright.” He took his left hand from the steering wheel and laced his fingers through Aziraphale’s, planting a kiss on the soft knuckles before letting their hands, intertwined, fall into his lap. “ _ Pip pip _ ,” he grumbled.

Aziraphale beamed. “Jolly good.”

The rest of the drive to Jasmine Cottage was uneventful and quiet. Even the stereo kept it down, the sounds of Freddie’s crooning fading into a soft backdrop rather than being front-and-center as usual. It was nice, Crowley thought, their linked hands heavy and warm against the bone of his thigh, reassuring and familiar. It was nice, so obviously it wouldn’t last: As they pulled closer to Jasmine Cottage, the shouts and yells of the Them grew louder and louder, until eventually they could see the teenagers cavorting around in the back garden. They were engaged in some kind of game, likely not understood by anyone except for the four of them, but whatever it was, it involved Wensley standing on the picnic table, arms outstretched, while the other three rummaged around in the burnt ruins for things to bring forward and place, with reverence, on the table at his feet. In response to some of them, Wensley would turn 90 degrees in one direction or the other, and the other three would shout and rush off for another item.

“You don’t think they’re inventing some kind of religion, do you?” Aziraphale asked, worried, as the kids sighted the Bentley and stopped what they were doing to run around to the front gate.

Crowley looked doubtful. “Probably not; I think Adam would know better. You can ask, if it’ll make you feel better.”

“Yes. I suppose I could.” The car stopped, and the Them clustered expectantly around the passenger’s side door, eagerly watching as Aziraphale fumbled with the handle and carefully pushed the door open.

The four of Them then tried to speak at once, which was a bit confusing - Crowley had to bite back a laugh - but the overriding voice was Pepper’s. “What was jail like?”

Adam glared at her, and Brian reinforced it by elbowing her - gently, because he didn’t much fancy getting Pepper too angry with him - in the ribs. “S’not very polite,” Adam said. Pepper stuck her tongue out at him. “Hmph.” He turned back to the angel, while Crowley rounded the front of the car and leaned against the grille, arms crossed and a grin on his face. “How are you?” Adam asked. His eyes flickered to Crowley. “And uh … Anathema said you’re okay?”

“I’m well,” Aziraphale replied with a slight bow. “Jail was terribly unexciting.”

Crowley waved a hand. “‘M’fine.”

Satisfied, the Them returned their attention to the angel. “Did you meet any murderers?” Pepper asked, eyes alight with the fevered glow of a young true-crime enthusiast. “Was it like Law & Order?”

“No to the first, thank goodness, and no, I’m sorry to say, to the second. As I said, it was very boring.” Aziraphale shrugged.

Brian cocked his head. “What happened?”

“Well, they escorted me to a small room with a fairly uncomfortable chair,” Aziraphale recounted, folding his hands in front of himself and looking off into the distance as he thought. “And then they asked me a great deal of questions about my relationship to Lord Bartleby, my history as a book dealer, and my movements over the past several days. Fortunately, I did have  _ several  _ good alibis with the exception of the night of my arrest, and they were prepared to release me by mid-morning.” He looked back over his shoulder to Crowley. “Of course, that was somewhat delayed.”

Pepper looked disappointed. “Was that really all that happened? That’s boring.”

Behind Aziraphale, Crowley frowned. “Oi, I’m the one that arrested the murderer. I got stabbed.”

“ _ Barely _ ,” Pepper replied, scathingly. “Anathema told us all about that part.”

“She couldn’t have,” Crowley replied with a scowl. “She wasn’t even there for most of it!”

Wensley looked thoughtful. “She did say Mr. Evans kept yelling about demons when they were questioning him, and she wasn’t sure why.”

The seemed to pique Pepper’s interest, and she turned back to Crowley. “Did you do something demonic?”

Aziraphale turned around now too, watching Crowley, expression unreadable. Crowley, suddenly self-conscious, rocked back onto his heels and stuffed his hands deep into his pockets. “Well … a bit. Just a little demonic,” he added, pulling his right hand from his pocket, thumb and forefinger pinched together to demonstrate just what a little bit it had been when Aziraphale’s expression turned to a scowl. “Enough to scare him off.”

“ _ Crowley _ .”

“He had a knife!”

Adam smirked. “Couldn’t you just miracle the knife away? Or make it dull or something?”

“I was under pressure,” Crowley replied, a little snappish, and Adam laughed. “Anyway, it worked, didn’t it?”

“What’d you do?” Brian pressed.

Crowley shrugged. “Took my glasses off, showed a bit of fangs. It didn’t take much. But then I -”

“That’s not that scary,” Pepper harrumphed. Aziraphale, still watching Crowley, abruptly turned away and had a very suspicious-sounding coughing fit into his handkerchief. Crowley glared at him. “We’ve seen you like that loads of times.”

“I’d imagine it’s a  _ bit _ scary when you’re not expecting it,” Wensley pointed out, before Crowley could say anything. “And actually since we know him, it’s probably less scary for us.”

“Plus, you know,” Brian added, gesturing to their little group, “it’s  _ us _ .”

Pepper crossed her arms, frowning. “I still don’t think that’s very scary. He must have been a real wimp.”

“Perhaps, but,” said Aziraphale, stepping in to defend his partner, who had taken on a bit of a petulant slump over the past minute or so, “most people aren’t friendly with retired demons. It can be a bit of a shock, I’d imagine.”

“Bit of a shock,” Crowley muttered with a snort, arms crossed now, wrapped around himself, looking away. “I thought he was going to have a heart attack.” He cleared his throat and went on, louder, “And I  _ did _ tackle him.”

The Them considered that, each of the teens looking thoughtfully at Crowley, or Aziraphale, or, in Adam’s case, Dog, who was industriously rolling in some rotting leaves along the curb. “Didn’t he have a broken -” Pepper started, but Aziraphale cut her off.

“Bit chilly out, isn’t it? What do you say we all head in and get warmed up?” He glanced to the picnic table, just visible around the side of the cottage. “Unless your … game … ?” He smiled, a little brittle. “What  _ was _ that game?”

“I’m gonna have to give you a bath now,” Adam said to Dog, a little miserably. Dog whined. “Don’t look at me like that, you’re the one that rolled in leaves.”

“It was a puzzle!” said Wensley. “I had a key in mind, see, and every time they brought something that fit the key I would either turn left or right. And whoever got me to complete the third revolution wins.” He beamed. “I got the idea from a video game. Have you ever played Myst?”

“Aha,” Aziraphale replied, the line of his shoulders relaxing a little with relief. “Afraid not. But very interesting. Shall we go inside?”

“I’ve got to bathe Dog,” Adam sighed loudly. “I think there was something dead in the leaves.”

Aziraphale made a face. “Oh, yes. Best to take care of that.”

“I’ll help,” Brian and Pepper replied at once. Pepper went on, “We can hold him so he doesn’t run off to a mud puddle again, like last time.”

Adam grinned. “Would you? Great, thanks.”

Wensley paused, hovering between curiosity about the books Aziraphale had wanted and the desire to stay with his friends. “I … well …” He looked to Aziraphale. “If there’s anything interesting …?”

“I’m sure there will be some restoration work to be done on them,” Aziraphale replied, smiling gently. “So they’ll be at the shop for a time. If there’s any you have an interest in, I can set them aside there until you next have a chance to get to London.”

“That’d be terrific,” the boy said, his face breaking out into a broad grin. “Thank you, Mr. Aziraphale.” Aziraphale assured him it was no trouble, and no sooner had the angel said so than Wensley jogged off after his friends. 

“He’s a nice boy,” Aziraphale said, watching him go.

Crowley shrugged, hands still in his pockets. “Likes to learn, doesn’t he? S’a good trait in a kid, I think, wanting to know stuff.” He nudged Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Shall we go inside, take stock of your winnings?”

“Hardly mine,” Aziraphale corrected as they started to walk, slipping his arm around Crowley’s waist. “You and Anathema did all of the work for me, really. I just provided the shopping list.” He gave the demon’s skinny waist a squeeze, chuckling when Crowley had to stagger a little mid-stride in response. “Thank you, Crowley. You saved the day once again.”

“I think I might let this scar,” he said pensively, prodding the bandage through his shirt. “A little memento, sort of.”

“Don’t be ridiculous - I’ll have the books. You don’t need a scar to remind me. Besides,” he said, the corners of his eyes wrinkling with his little smile, “I don’t really think it’s all that bad, dear.”

Crowley stammered. “I - Wha - You haven’t seen it! I have a bandage over it!”

“You told me the medics said it would be fine.”

“Well, I didn’t want to worry you, obviously.”

“Mm-hmm.” He knocked at the door and paused for a second before opening it up and stepping inside. “Certainly. Hello?” he called.

Anathema appeared around the corner from the hall to the living room, beaming. Newt was a few steps behind, smiling apprehensively. His expression fell when he caught sight of Crowley. “Er.”

“Well, if it isn’t the felon himself!” Anathema said, arms spread wide. “And the victim. You’re still among the living, Crowley, good to see.” She smirked in Aziraphale’s direction. “It was touch-and-go there for a minute. I thought he might even need actual medical attention.”

“Shut it,” Crowley snarled, good-naturedly, following Aziraphale into the living room. “Bruja malvada.”

She grinned. “Demonio terrible.”

“Oh, goodness!” Aziraphale exclaimed, stopping short ahead of them. He turned to look to Anathema, wide-eyed and openly excited. “Anathema!” He turned back around to hurry over to the books. Beside Anathema, Crowley lifted his glasses up, squinting toward the books.

“Looks like more than ten.”

“It is!” Newt blurted, while Anathema sighed and gave him an exasperated look. “It’s more than ten, it’s fifteen, and -”

“Thanks,  _ honey _ ,” the witch snapped. She glared at Crowley, daring him to say anything, and then stepped forward to stand next to Aziraphale, brushing a strand of her dark hair back behind her ear. “Listen, I can explain.”

“Whyever would you need to?” Aziraphale’s hands fluttered over the piles of books, his fingertips gingery brushing across the edges of the pages and the well-worn covers. “Beautiful collection, my dear.” Behind them, Crowley muttered as he counted the books, fifteen in total.

“Some of them were in a series,” she said, indicating the books in question. “This was in a set with two others, and then this one was part of a series I guess - it was the third one, but then they were also selling the first two and the prequel.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale breathed. From a coat pocket, or possibly from nowhere at all, he produced a pair of white cotton gloves and pulled them on, easing one of the books out of the little pile. “Yes, the prequel … I didn’t realize his Lordship had the prequel. And, well, it’s not technically a series, I suppose, just a collection by the same author but …” He eased the cover open, and his eyes glittered. “A first edition,” he said, in hushed tones.

Crowley rolled his eyes and shoved his glasses back onto his nose. “I wasn’t there for the bidding -” Newt started, but the demon waved a hand.

“Don’t. I still think we’re getting away with fewer than we would’ve if he were there in person,” he confided. “I said ten, but you think I’m gonna get between him and books?” He raised an eyebrow. Newt, warily, shook his head. “Bloody right I’m not. I didn’t get this old by being stupid.”

By the book piles, Aziraphale was thanking Anathema again and again, absently stroking the cover of one of the books like a person might pet a well-loved cat. He broke off the conversation only briefly to ask Crowley to go upstairs and get his bag - which was empty, aside from a notebook and a bundle of white cotton bags for transporting the old books - before he started sorting his payload and packing them away into the suitcase. 

“Well,” Anathema said with a broad smile, “I’m glad you’re happy.”

Crowley had by now sprawled onto the couch. “I got stabbed: you’d better be happy.”

“I am  _ very _ happy,” the angel confirmed, snapping the clasps shut on the case. “Thank you - all of you. It was … quite a weekend, eh?”

“Yes,” the other three replied at the same time. Anathema snorted. “I didn’t really realize the rare book community was so dangerous.”

“If it’s any consolation, it usually isn’t.” The angel glanced out of the window and to the burned remains of the garden. “I don’t suppose anyone would notice if I fixed your garden, would they? I feel  _ terribly _ sorry about the damage.”

“Don’t you dare,” Crowley warned. “I have plans for that garden. Those blackberries were out of hand.”

Aziraphale looked to Anathema hopefully. “At least the paint on the side of the house.”

“If you mu -” he snapped his fingers, and she sighed. “Thank you, Aziraphale. You didn’t need to do that. It is white, right? The paint was white before.”

“I rather feel I did and yes. Perfectly white, not a hint of tartan*.” He turned to Crowley, politely expectant. “Very well. Crowley, if Miss Device and Mr. Pulsifer don’t have any objections, I rather feel we’ve been quite enough of a burden for the weekend.”

[*  _ This wasn’t completely a lie. The paint was white but, if you looked at it, the brush-strokes on the rough sides of the cottage were in a distinctly tartan sort of pattern _ .]

“No,” Newt said quickly, absently running a hand through his hair while his eyes darted from the angel to the demon and back. “No, no, definitely not.”

“Yes, yes, definitely yes. You’re a terrible liar,” Crowley snickered. He grunted and levered himself upright, stretching after he got steady on his feet. “You’ve put up with enough murder attempts for one weekend, I think. Most humans don’t have that much excitement in a lifetime.”

Anathema laughed. “And we were  _ already _ way above our lifetime excitement quota. Seriously, though, you’re more than welcome to stay for dinner. I think with Evans in jail we ought to be okay again.”

Aziraphale shook his head firmly, and raised a hand. “We won’t impose any longer. You have my eternal gratitude, of course, but I daresay you two could use a bit of rest.”

“We’re fine,” Newt said, unconvincing. 

Crowley snorted. Anathema shook her head. “I won’t say no, but please don’t feel obligated to go.”

“Nah. I could use a little sleep, I think.” Crowley went to slip by the witch and toward the door, but she was quick enough to prod him in the stomach. “Oi! Stab wound!”

“Stab  _ abrasion _ .” She patted him fondly on the shoulder. “Hasta luego, amigo.”

“Chao. Cuídate.” He slapped Newt once on the back on his way by, following Aziraphale toward the door. “Later, Pulsifer. Be seeing you - have to get that garden sorted.”

“Great. See you,” Newt said, and Crowley only smirked when his voice cracked a bit on the first word. 

Anathema and Newt followed them to the front door, said their official goodbyes, and pretended not to notice when Aziraphale blessed them both, as well as their house. Of course, Crowley in the background waving his arms and making overly-dramatic gestures to emphasize the blessing (and throw a little extra of his own oomph in, conveniently masked by the angel’s) sort of spoiled the effect, but the thought was nice all the same. The Them had retreated from the garden to the green space across the road from the cottage, in pursuit of Dog, who appeared to have escaped to the nearest mud puddle in spite of their best efforts. 

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale said, while Crowley loaded the suitcase into the boot of the Bentley. “What a bad dog.”

“He is a hellhound. Somewhere in there, anyway.” He closed the car, and the sound of it drew the teens’ attention: They waved from afar, Adam shouting that he’d text, before going back to their chase, Dog happily yapping and running muddy circles around them. Aziraphale and Crowley watched, entertained, until the kids and the hellhound disappeared over the hill and into the wood. 

Once in the car, Crowley waited until they were nearly to the border of Tadfield to bring up the books. “Fifteen, eh?”

“And they’re fantastic.” Aziraphale looked over to the demon, eyes narrow. “It’s barely more than ten. I have plenty of room for them.”

Crowley snickered. “I’m sure you will, by some miracle.”

“No miracles will be required,” Aziraphale replied primly. He took a breath and sat back, watching as the scenery whipped by on the way back to the South Downs.

They were quiet, comfortable in each other’s company, while the road rolled away underneath them and Freddy Mercury sang the hits. It wasn’t until they were exiting the M25 that Aziraphale spoke again, in an idle tone, looking out of the window at the hedgerows whipping past all the while. “About the wedding … were you serious? Really serious?”

“Aziraphale, if you really want me to help you with your taxes - ” Crowley started, but when he glanced over the angel was watching him, very serious. He swallowed. “Yeah. Yeah, I was.”

Aziraphale nodded, and the silence between the two tightened, Aziraphale’s jaw tense as he looked out of the windshield, Crowley’s knuckles white on the steering wheel. “You wouldn’t object,” Aziraphale said, very slowly, and quietly, nearly thirty minutes later, “to a rather small sort of ceremony, would you?”

“‘Course not. I’d be fine if it were just the two of us. And whoever else to make it official, I suppose.”

“Because I was thinking, while I was in jail,” Aziraphale went on, “if I  _ did _ go to prison -”

“You weren’t going to prison, angel, honestly -”

“No, of course not, I’m aware. But, in the event that one of us were to be in such a situation, it might be to our benefit to have a legal claim to one another, as it were.”

Crowley nodded. “So you’re thinking a civil ceremony?”

“That’d be best, I think.” He glanced upwards. “I know they agreed to leave us alone, but … well, best not to draw attention. Don’t you think?”

The demon thought about it for a while, until the Bentley rumbled off of the M23. “Yeah. Yeah, probably. Don’t much care for what they think, anyway.”

Aziraphale looked a bit worried at his response. “You’re sure? If … I will, Crowley, if you want to do it officially.  _ Officially _ . But I think in our position -”

“I’m sure,” he said firmly, honestly. “That was what all of that three years ago was about after all anyway, wasn’t it? I prefer Earth - here, with you - over either of their lot.” He pointed up and down as he spoke. “Seems appropriate to make it official here and to He - er, to …” He trailed off. “To …”

“I believe, dear, that in your, er,  _ unique _ dialect, you would say ‘fuck ‘em’.”

The Bentley swerved. Freddie Mercury stopped singing, and the sounds of the band clattered to a halt on the radio, even the memory of Queen shocked. Crowley barely managed to guide the car over to the shoulder of the road staring at the angel the entire time, mouth open, before he choked out, “ _ What _ ?!”

“One of your little colloquialisms.” Aziraphale drew himself up, haughtily. “I  _ am _ allowed to say it, you know.”

“You never have! I … Of course you’re  _ allowed _ to say whatever, angel, but you …” Crowley gaped a bit. “I heard you say  _ pish posh _ last week when you knocked that entire pile of books over in the store!”

“Well, I’m not going to say it all the time,” Aziraphale muttered in reply, defensively. “But it was appropriate then, wouldn’t you say?”

Crowley swallowed, and pushed his glasses back up a little. “Incredibly.”

“And it summed up your feelings rather succinctly?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Then I hardly see the issue.” He threw up his hands. “There’s a time and a place for everything, Crowley, and just because I don’t typically  _ choose _ to - ah.” The last bit was somewhat muffled because in an instant, Crowley had thrown off his glasses and grabbed Aziraphale’s face in both hands, the better to plant a kiss firmly on his lips. After a beat in which his brain caught up with current events, Aziraphale relaxed, and started to kiss him back.

“If I’d known you’d respond so favorably to foul language,” Aziraphale murmured when they broke apart, Crowley slumping onto his angel’s shoulder, nuzzling into the curve where his neck met his collarbone, drinking in the smell of fresh linen and old books and warm steel and  _ Aziraphale _ , “I would have sworn more in recent years.”

Crowley took a breath. “Nah. Just surprisssed me, isss all.” He sat up, watching Aziraphale through heavily-lidded eyes, yellow all the way through. “Ss’what I like about you, you know? 6000 years, you still surprise me.”

Aziraphale responded by kissing him again, one finger crooked under Crowley’s angular chin, soft and gentle. “Well. I’ll have to endeavor to keep it up then, hm?”

“Whatever you like.”

They sat for another minute, staring at one another, until Aziraphale brushed the pad of his thumb softly over the serpent on Crowley’s temple. “We should be getting home, I think. It’s going to be dark, before too long.”

“I can see in the dark.”

“You were stabbed earlier. You should rest.”

“I was abraded.”

“I want to read in bed next to you while you sleep,” Aziraphale said then, a little more clipped. “Even if you snore. And I can’t  _ do that _ sitting here on the shoulder of the A23.”

“Right.” Crowley shook himself and turned back forward-facing. Deliberately, he placed both hands on the wheel and pulled back onto the road, accelerating to his usual rubber-burning speed in seconds. Without looking down, he reached and punched at the radio, and music once again filled the cab of the Bentley. Before he could move his hand back to the wheel, Aziraphale’s warm, soft fingers wrapped around his own, and squeezed. Quite unconsciously, and very un-demonically, Crowley grinned. “Right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The END :D
> 
> As always, I very much am grateful to everyone for getting this far! I hope you enjoyed it. If you have a minute to leave a comment it would be much appreciated.
> 
> Thank you again!


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